To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York (37 page)

Alarm showed itself in Katharine’s eyes. She half guessed what was coming. Oh no. She could not bear it. She wanted to go home to her mother. She had been reconciled to Arthur because he was kind and gentle and life had been so much happier with him than she had dared hope it would be. But to be passed over to his brother . . . that young boy . . . She had been a little older than Arthur even. Oh, how desperately she wanted to go home.

“The King would give his consent to a match between you and our son Henry.”

“Henry is but a boy.”

“Boys grow up. He is old for his age. He could marry at sixteen . . . fifteen perhaps.”

“I do not think my parents would agree,” said Katharine.

“There could, of course, be no match without their agreement,” the Queen answered. She laid a hand on Katharine’s arm. “Say nothing of this. I told you because I thought you should know what is in the King’s mind.”

The two looked at each other for a few moments and then Elizabeth opened her arms and Katharine went to her. They stood for a few moments in a close embrace.

It was only a few days later when the King sent for her. He greeted her with a show of affection, which was rare with him, and it was obvious that he was very pleased about something.

“My dear daughter,” he said. “I have good news for you. I have heard from your parents.”

Her face lighted up. They were going to send for her. They would never agree to her marrying young Henry. It was wrong according to the laws of the Church and none could uphold the Church more strongly than her mother. Henry was her brother-in-law. That was the important fact, not that he was five years younger than she was. That meant nothing to them.

The King’s next words dashed her hopes. “They agree to a marriage between you and Prince Henry.”

“But . . . that is . . . impossible. I was his brother’s wife.”

“No, my dear child, the marriage was not consummated. That makes all the difference. All we need is a dispensation from the Pope. And we can rest assured that if I wish it and if your parents wish it there will be no obstacles to that.”

“I . . . I . . . I do not wish . . .”

“I know your feelings. You have so shortly become a widow. You loved Arthur. My dear child, you know nothing of marriage. That will come . . . in due course. You will be betrothed to Henry and when he is of an age to marry the ceremony shall take place. You will be the Queen of England one day.”

“Does Henry know of this?”

“He does and he is overjoyed.”

“He is too young. . . .”

“Nay, he understands well. He was, to confess it, a little jealous of his brother’s good fortune.”

The King’s face was twisted into a smile as he tried to look jovial. Katharine thought it was as though his features resented being distorted into such unusual lines.

“It will be a long time . . . yet,” said Katharine faintly.

“Ah, time passes quickly. It gives me great pleasure to convey to you this excellent news.”

He rubbed his hands together and his eyes glinted.

He is seeing one hundred thousand crowns which have already been paid to him and is congratulating himself that he will not have to part with them, thought Katharine. And he is seeing the hundred thousand coming to me when I marry Henry.

The King put his lips to her cheek and she was dismissed.

In her apartment she called for writing materials.

She wanted to write to her mother but she could not do this. Everything she wrote would be seen by both her parents and she knew her father would be angry if she pleaded with her mother and excluded him.

Nevertheless, she must relieve her feelings in some way.

“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England. . . .”

Her mother would understand that that was a cry for help.

Then she thought of the rules of obedience which had always been adhered to; one must never think of oneself but of the good of the country. If her parents wished it she would have to take Henry. Perhaps they could be happy together; he had always shown an interest in her. She would have to be resigned to her fate if it were her parents’ wish that she should accept what they planned for her.

She added: “I know that my tastes and conveniences cannot be considered, and you will in all things act as is best.”

When she had written and dispatched the letter she lay down on her bed and staring dry-eyed before her murmured: “Please dearest mother, send for me. Dear God, let me go home.”

It was late January when the Queen in the company of her ladies was rowed from Richmond to the Tower where she had decided her child should be born.

Her sister Katharine was very anxious about her for Elizabeth had had such a difficult pregnancy and was scarcely strong enough for the ordeal before her.

People stood about on the river bank to watch the Queen’s barge and to give a cheer for the poor lady who looked as though she would give birth at any moment.

The chamber in the Tower had been prepared and to this the Queen went immediately. Her women gathered about her helping her to bed and making sure of her comforts. Lady Courtenay sat by her bed, ever watchful of her sister and wondering about her husband who was incarcerated in this very Tower. She had been anxious ever since the execution of Sir James Tyrrell who had had very little to do with the planned rising. She wondered why Suffolk and her husband had got off so lightly. It was no use asking Elizabeth. The Queen knew so little of the King’s affairs, which Katharine Courtenay believed were very devious indeed.

February had come, bleak and bitterly cold when the Queen’s pains started and on Candlemas Day, the second of that month, the child was born.

Katharine Courtenay felt sad when she saw that the child was a girl. Dear Elizabeth, she had so longed for a boy. Perhaps if there had been a boy, Katharine thought, there could have been a rest from this incessant childbearing, which was undoubtedly having dire effects on the Queen’s health.

The child was sound but a little frail. As she held the baby in her arms she heard the Queen’s voice calling her.

She went to the bed. “A dear little girl, Elizabeth,” she said.

Elizabeth closed her eyes for one despairing moment. Then she opened them and she was smiling.

“She is . . . healthy?”

“Yes,” said Katharine, and put the child in her arms.

After a while she took the baby from its mother who fell into a sleep of exhaustion. This time next year, thought Katharine, we shall doubtless be in a similar situation. Will it go on and on until they get a boy? And how will Elizabeth endure it? She won’t admit it but she is less strong after each confinement.

The midwife was looking anxious.

“Why are you worried?” asked Katharine.

“The Queen is not strong enough,” said the midwife. “This should be the last.”

“I will talk to her.”

“Someone should talk to the King.”

Why not? thought Katharine. He had a son and now three daughters. That must be enough.

When the Queen was rested Katharine sat at her bedside and they talked together.

“She is a beautiful child, I hear,” said the Queen. “They would not deceive me, would they?”

“Why should they? You have three other beautiful children, sister.”

“Arthur was weak and they kept that from me for several days.”

“You brood too much on Arthur. You have Henry. You could not have a son who was more full of strength and vitality.”

“It is true. You have been a great comfort to me, Katharine, and I know you have troubles of your own. I am going to call this little one Katharine . . . after you.”

“Then I am honored, dear sister.”

As Katharine bent over the bed and kissed the Queen, she was a little startled by the clammy coldness of her skin.

Within a week the Queen was dead. Her passing was not only a matter of great sorrow but of amazement. She had appeared to recover from the ordeal of childbirth and it was not until six days later that the fatal symptoms appeared.

When Katharine Courtenay had found her in a terrifyingly weak state she had sent a messenger at once to the King and when Henry arrived he was horrified. He had sent with all speed for his physician, who believing that the Queen was on the way to recovery, had left the Tower for his home in Gravesend.

The news of the deterioration of the Queen’s health spread rapidly as Dr. Hallyswurth came hurrying through the night with the help of guides and torches to speed his coming, and people were already in the streets whispering of the mortal sickness which had come to the Queen.

She died on the eleventh of February, nine days after the birth of the child. It was her own birthday and she was thirty-eight years old.

In all the churches in the city the bells were tolling.

Crowds watched while spices, sweet wine-gums and balms with ells of Holland cloth were taken into the Tower and they knew that these things were for the dismal purpose of embalming the Queen.

From her apartments she was taken to the chapel in the Tower and there she lay in state for twelve days after which her body was put in a velvet carriage and taken to Westminster. An effigy in robes of state and crown was put in a chair on the coffin and it was said that this bore a startling resemblance to the Queen at her most beautiful. It was a day of great mourning.

The King was genuinely stricken with grief. Although he knew that Elizabeth had been in ill health for some time he had not expected her to die. She had recovered from the birth of the child and everyone had believed she would soon leave her bed. It was a bitter blow; but being Henry he was immediately facing the grim fact that now he had no wife and only one son to follow him. Margaret was already the Queen of Scotland. He needed children. And Elizabeth who was to have provided them was dead.

The Prince of Wales was equally bewildered. He had loved his mother. She had been very beautiful and he was susceptible to beauty. That she should have died so suddenly was disturbing. He felt bereft. He had not loved her as he had Anne Oxenbrigge, but now he was growing up he was becoming very much aware of his royal dignity and he would not admit that a nursemaid had been so very important to him. His mother had seemed remote but good and beautiful and she had been the daughter of a king. As a Tudor he attached great importance to that. And now she was dead.

He was twelve years old now and he was going to be betrothed. He looked at the Spanish Princess. She was wary and did not meet his eyes.

Poor Katharine, she must admire him very much. Well, she was pretty, and he had envied Arthur. It was strange how everything that he had envied was now coming to him.

Katharine looked very sad. She was realizing that if her parents decided she must stay here she had just lost one who would have been a good friend to her.

Henry was looking at her, smiling faintly.

She returned the smile. She would have to please him, she supposed. If she did not, what would happen to her?

She looked about her. Here was genuine sorrow. Even the King looked older and more gray. As for the Lady Courtenay, she was quite distraught as she with the Queen’s sisters laid their palls on the coffin.