Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (33 page)

After weeks spent alone, mourning for his wife, the king returned to the court at Whitehall Palace, and Catalina was invited to dine with the royal family and seated with the Princess Mary and the ladies of the court. The young Harry, Prince of Wales, was placed securely between his father and grandmother. Not for this Prince of Wales the cold journey to Ludlow Castle and the rigorous training of a prince in waiting. Lady Margaret had ruled that this prince, their only surviving heir, should be brought up under her own eye, in ease and comfort. He was not to be sent away, he was to be watched all the time. He was not even allowed to take part in dangerous sports, jousting or fighting, though he was quite wild to take part, and a boy who loved activity and excitement. His grandmother had ruled that he was too precious to risk.

He smiled at Catalina and she shot him a look that she hoped was discreetly warm. But there was no opportunity to exchange so much as one word. She was firmly anchored further down the table and she could hardly see him thanks to My Lady the King’s Mother, who plied him with the best of all foods from her own plate, and interposed her broad shoulder between him and the ladies.

Catalina thought that it was as Arthur had said, that the boy was spoiled by this attention. His grandmother leaned back for a moment to speak to one of the ushers and Catalina saw Harry’s gaze flick towards her. She gave him a smile and then cast down her eyes. When she glanced up, he was still looking at her and then he blushed red to be caught. ‘A child.’ She shot a sideways little smile even as she silently criticised him. ‘A child of eleven. All
boasting and boyishness. And why should this plump, spoilt boy be spared when Arthur…’ At once she stopped the thought. To compare Arthur with his brother was to wish the little boy dead, and she would not do that. To think of Arthur in public was to risk breaking down and she would never do that.

‘A woman could rule a boy like that,’ she thought. ‘A woman could be a very great queen if she married such a boy. For the first ten years he would know nothing, and by then, perhaps he might be in such a habit of obedience that he would let his wife continue to rule. Or he might be, as Arthur told me, a lazy boy. A young man wasted. He might be so lazy that he could be diverted by games and hunting and sports and amusements, so that the business of the kingdom could be done by his wife.’

Catalina never forgot that Arthur had told her that the boy fancied himself in love with her. ‘If they give him everything that he wants, perhaps he might be the one who chooses his bride,’ she thought. ‘They are in the habit of indulging him. Perhaps he could beg to marry me and they would feel obliged to say “yes”.’

She saw him blush even redder, even his ears turned pink. She held his gaze for a long moment, she took in a little breath and parted her lips as if to whisper a word to him. She saw his blue eyes focus on her mouth and darken with desire, and then, calculating the effect, she looked down. ‘Stupid boy,’ she thought.

The king rose from the table and all the men and women on the crowded benches of the hall rose too, and bowed their heads.

‘Give you thanks for coming to greet me,’ King Henry said. ‘Comrades in war and friends in peace. But now forgive me, as I wish to be alone.’

He nodded to Harry, he offered his mother his hand, and the royal family went through the little doorway at the back of the great hall to their privy chamber.

‘You should have stayed longer,’ the king’s mother remarked as they settled into chairs by the fire and the groom of the ewery
brought them wine. ‘It looks bad, to leave so promptly. I had told the Master of Horse you would stay, and there would be singing.’

‘I was weary,’ Henry said shortly. He looked over to where Catalina and the Princess Mary were sitting together. The younger girl was red-eyed, the loss of her mother had hit her hard. Catalina was – as usual – cool as a stream. He thought she had great power of self-containment. Even this loss of her only real friend at court, her last friend in England, did not seem to distress her.

‘She can go back to Durham House tomorrow,’ his mother remarked, following the direction of his gaze. ‘It does no good for her to come to court. She has not earned her place here with an heir, and she has not paid for her place here with her dowry.’

‘She is constant,’ he said. ‘She is constant in her attendance on you, and on me.’

‘Constant like the plague,’ his mother returned.

‘You are hard on her.’

‘It is a hard world,’ she said simply. ‘I am nothing but just. Why don’t we send her home?’

‘Do you not admire her at all?’

She was surprised by the question. ‘What is there to admire in her?’

‘Her courage, her dignity. She has beauty, of course, but she also has charm. She is educated, she is graceful. I think, in other circumstances, she could have been merry. And she has borne herself, under this disappointment, like a queen.’

‘She is of no use to us,’ she said. ‘She was our Princess of Wales; but our boy is dead. She is of no use to us now, however charming she may seem to be.’

Catalina looked up and saw them watching her. She gave a small, controlled smile and inclined her head. Henry rose, went to a window bay on his own, and crooked his finger for her. She did not jump to come to him, as any of the women of court would have jumped. She looked at him, she raised an eyebrow as if she were
considering whether or not to obey, and then she gracefully rose to her feet and strolled towards him.

‘Good God, she is desirable,’ he thought to himself. ‘No more than seventeen. Utterly in my power, and yet still she walks across the room as if she were Queen of England crowned.’

‘You will miss the queen, I daresay,’ he said abruptly in French as she came up to him.

‘I shall,’ she replied clearly. ‘I grieve for you in the loss of your wife. I am sure my mother and father would want me to give you their commiserations.’

He nodded, never taking his eyes from her face. ‘We share a grief now,’ he observed. ‘You have lost your partner in life and I have lost mine.’

He saw her gaze sharpen. ‘Indeed,’ she said steadily. ‘We do.’

He wondered if she was trying to unravel his meaning. If that quick mind was working behind that clear lovely face there was no sign of it. ‘You must teach me the secret of your resignation,’ he said.

‘Oh, I don’t think I resign myself.’

Henry was intrigued. ‘You don’t?’

‘No. I think I trust in God that He knows what is right for all of us, and His will shall be done.’

‘Even when His ways are hidden, and we sinners have to stumble about in the dark?’

‘I know my destiny,’ Catalina said calmly. ‘He has been gracious to reveal it to me.’

‘Then you’re one of the very few,’ he said, thinking to make her laugh at herself.

‘I know,’ she said without a glimmer of a smile. He realised that she was utterly serious in her belief that God had revealed her future to her. ‘I am blessed.’

‘And what is this great destiny that God has for you?’ he said sarcastically. He hoped so much that she would say that she should
be Queen of England, and then he could ask her, or draw close to her, or let her see what was in his mind.

‘To do God’s will, of course, and bring His kingdom to earth,’ she said cleverly, and evaded him once more.

I speak very confidently of God’s will, and I remind the king that I was raised to be Princess of Wales, but in truth God is silent to me. Since the day of Arthur’s death I can have no genuine conviction that I am blessed. How can I call myself blessed when I have lost the one thing that made my life complete? How can I be blessed when I do not think I will ever be happy again? But we live in a world of believers
–
I have to say that I am under the especial protection of God, I have to give the illusion of being sure of my destiny. I am the daughter of Isabella of Spain. My inheritance is certainty.

But in truth, of course, I am increasingly alone. I feel increasingly alone. There is nothing between me and despair but my promise to Arthur, and the thin thread, like gold wire in a carpet, of my own determination.

King Henry did not approach Catalina for one month for the sake of decency, but when he was out of his black jacket he made a formal visit to her at Durham House. Her household had been warned that he would come, and were dressed in their best. He saw the signs of wear and tear in the curtains and rugs and hangings and smiled to himself. If she had the good sense that he thought she had, she would be glad to see a resolution to this awkward position. He congratulated himself on not making it easier for her in this last
year. She should know by now that she was utterly in his power and her parents could do nothing to free her.

His herald threw open the double doors to her presence chamber and shouted: ‘His Grace, King Henry of England…’

Henry waved aside the other titles and went in to his daughter-in-law.

She was wearing a dark-coloured gown with blue slashings on the sleeve, a richly embroidered stomacher and a dark blue hood. It brought out the amber in her hair and the blue in her eyes and he smiled in instinctive pleasure at the sight of her as she sank into a deep formal curtsey and rose up.

‘Your Grace,’ she said pleasantly. ‘This is an honour indeed.’

He had to force himself not to stare at the creamy line of her neck, at the smooth, unlined face that looked back up at him. He had lived all his life with a beautiful woman of his own age; now here was a girl young enough to be his daughter, with the rich-scented bloom of youth still on her, and breasts full and firm. She was ready for marriage, indeed, she was over-ready for marriage. This was a girl who should be bedded. He checked himself at once, and thought he was part lecher, part lover to look on his dead son’s child-bride with such desire.

‘Can I offer you some refreshment?’ she asked. There was a smile in the back of her eyes.

He thought if she had been an older, a more sophisticated woman he would have assumed she was playing him, as knowingly as a skilled angler can land a salmon.

‘Thank you. I will take a glass of wine.’

And so she caught him. ‘I am afraid I have nothing fit to offer you,’ she said smoothly. ‘I have nothing left in my cellars at all, and I cannot afford to buy good wine.’

Henry did not show by so much as a flicker that he knew she had trapped him into hearing of her financial difficulties. ‘I am sorry for that, I will have some barrels sent over,’ he said. ‘Your housekeeping must be very remiss.’

‘It is very thin,’ she said simply. ‘Will you take a cup of ale? We brew our own ale very cheaply.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, biting his lip to hide a smile. He had not dreamed that she had so much self-confidence. The year of widowhood had brought out her courage, he thought. Alone in a foreign land she had not collapsed as other girls might have collapsed, she had gathered her power and become stronger.

‘Is My Lady the King’s Mother in good health and the Princess Mary well?’ she asked, as confidently as if she were entertaining him in the gold room of the Alhambra.

‘Yes, thank God,’ he said. ‘And you?’

She smiled and bowed her head. ‘And no need to ask for your health,’ she remarked. ‘You never look any different.’

‘Do I not?’

‘Not since the very first time we met,’ she said. ‘When I had just landed in England and was coming to London and you rode to meet me.’ It cost Catalina a good deal not to think of Arthur as he was on that evening, mortified by his father’s rudeness, trying to talk to her in an undertone, stealing sideways looks at her.

Determinedly she put her young lover from her mind and smiled at his father and said: ‘I was so surprised by your coming, and so startled by you.’

He laughed. He saw that she had conjured the picture of when he first saw her, a virgin by her bed, in a white gown with a blue cape with her hair in a plait down her back, and how he thought then that he had come upon her like a ravisher, he had forced his way into her bedchamber, he could have forced himself on to her.

He turned and took a chair to cover his thoughts, gesturing that she should sit down too. Her duenna, the same sour-faced Spanish mule, he noticed irritably, stood at the back of the room with two other ladies.