But I have made a promise. I do not retract my word. He begged me for a promise and he dictated the lie I must tell, and I said yes. I will not fail him. It is the last thing he asked of me, and I will do it. I will do it for him, and I will do it for our love.
Oh, my love, if you knew how much I long to see you.
Catalina traveled to London with the black-trimmed curtains of the litter closed against the beauty of the countryside, as it came into full bloom. She did not see the people doff their caps or curtsey as the procession wound through the little English villages. She did not hear the men and women call “God bless you, Princess! ”as the litter jolted slowly down the village streets. She did not know that every young woman in the land crossed herself and prayed that she should not have the bad luck of the pretty Spanish princess who had come so far for love and then lost her man after only five months.
She was dully aware of the lush green of the countryside, of the fertile swelling of the crops in the fields and the fat cattle in the water meadows. When their way wound through the thick forests she noticed the coolness of the green shade and the thick interleaving of the canopy of boughs over the road. Herds of deer vanished into the dappled shade and she could hear the calling of a cuckoo and the rattle of a woodpecker. It was a beautiful land, a wealthy land, a great inheritance for a young couple. She thought of Arthur’s desire to protect this land of his against the Scots, against the Moors. Of his will to reign here better and more justly than it had ever been done before.
She did not speak to her hosts on the road who attributed her silence to grief, and pitied her for it. She did not speak to her ladies, not even to María who was at her side in silent sympathy, nor to Doña Elvira who, at this crisis in Spanish affairs, was everywhere; her husband organizing the houses on the road, she herself ordering the princess’s food, her bedding, her companions, her diet. Catalina said nothing and let them do as they wished with her.
Some of her hosts thought her sunk so deep in grief that she was beyond speech, and prayed that she should recover her wits again and go back to Spain and make a new marriage that would bring her a new husband to replace the old. What they did not know was that Catalina was holding her grief for her husband in some hidden place deep inside her. Deliberately, she delayed her mourning until she had the safety to indulge in it. While she jolted along in the litter she was not weeping for him, she was racking her brains how to fulfill his dream. She was wondering how to obey him, as he had demanded. She was thinking how she should fulfill her deathbed promise to the only young man she had ever loved.
I shall have to be clever. I shall have to be more cunning than King Henry Tudor, more determined than his mother. Faced with those two, I don’t know that I can get away with it. But I have to get away with it. I have given my promise, I will tell my lie. England shall be ruled as Arthur wanted. The rose will live again. I shall make the England that he wanted.
I wish I could have brought Lady Margaret with me to advise me, I miss her friendship, I miss her hard-won wisdom. I wish I could see her steady gaze and hear her counsel to be resigned, to bow to my destiny, to give myself to God’s will. I would not follow her advice—but I wish I could hear it.
Summer 1502
CROYDON, MAY 1502
The princess and her party arrived at Croydon Palace and Doña Elvira led Catalina to her private rooms. For once, the girl did not go to her bedchamber and close the door behind her. She stood in the sumptuous presence chamber, looking around her. “A chamber fit for a princess,” she said.
“But it is not your own,” Doña Elvira said, anxious for her charge’s status. “It has not been given to you. It is just for your use.”
The young woman nodded. “It is fitting,” she said.
“The Spanish ambassador is in attendance,” Doña Elvira told her. “Shall I tell him that you will not see him?”
“I will see him,” Catalina said quietly. “Tell him to come in.”
“You don’t have to…”
“He may have word from my mother,” she said. “I should like her advice.”
The duenna bowed and went to find the ambassador. He was deep in conversation in the gallery outside the presence chamber with Father Alessandro Geraldini, the princess’s chaplain. Doña Elvira regarded them both with dislike. The chaplain was a tall, handsome man, his dark good looks in stark contrast to those of his companion. The ambassador. Dr. de Puebla was tiny beside him, leaning against a chair to support his misshapen spine, his damaged leg tucked behind the other, his bright little face alight with excitement.
“She could be with child?” the ambassador confirmed in a whisper. “You are certain?”
“Pray God it is so. She is certainly in hopes of it,” the confessor confirmed.
“Dr. de Puebla!” the duenna snapped, disliking the confidential air between the two men. “I shall take you to the princess now.”
De Puebla turned and smiled at the irritable woman. “Certainly, Doña Elvira,” he said equably. “At once.”
Dr. de Puebla limped into the room, his richly trimmed black hat already in his hand, his small face wreathed in an unconvincing smile. He bowed low with a flourish, and came up to inspect the princess.
At once he was struck by how much she had changed in such a short time. She had come to England a girl, with a girl’s optimism. He had thought her a spoilt child, one who had been protected from the harshness of the real world. In the fairy-tale palace of the Alhambra this had been the petted youngest daughter of the most powerful monarchs in Christendom. Her journey to England had been the first real discomfort she had been forced to endure, and she had complained about it bitterly, as if he could help the weather. On her wedding day, standing beside Arthur and hearing the cheers for him had been the first time she had taken second place to anyone but her heroic parents.
But before him now was a girl who had been hammered by unhappiness into a fine maturity. This Catalina was thinner, and paler, but with a new spiritual beauty, honed by hardship. He drew his breath. This Catalina was a young woman with a queenly presence. She had become through grief not only Arthur’s widow but her mother’s daughter. This was a princess from the line that had defeated the most powerful enemy of Christendom. This was the very bone of the bone and blood of the blood of Isabella of Castile. She was cool, she was hard. He hoped very much that she was not going to be difficult.
De Puebla gave her a smile that he meant to be reassuring and saw her scrutinize him with no answering warmth in her face. She gave him her hand and then she sat in a straight-backed wooden chair before the fire. “You may sit,” she said graciously, gesturing him to a lower chair, farther away.
He bowed again, and sat.
“Do you have any messages for me?”
“Of sympathy, from the king and Queen Elizabeth and from My Lady the King’s Mother, and from myself, of course. They will invite you to court when you have recovered from your journey and are out of mourning.”
“How long am I to be in mourning?” Catalina inquired.
“My Lady the King’s Mother has said that you should be in seclusion for a month after the burial. But since you were not at court during that time, she has ruled that you will stay here until she commands you to return to London. She is concerned for your health….”
He paused, hoping that she would volunteer whether or not she was with child, but she let the silence stretch.
He thought he would ask her directly. “Infanta—”
“You should call me princess,” she interrupted. “I am the Princess of Wales.”
He hesitated, thrown off course. “Dowager Princess,” he corrected her quietly.
Catalina nodded. “Of course. It is understood. Do you have any letters from Spain?”
He bowed and gave her the letter he was carrying in the hidden pocket in his sleeve. She did not snatch it from him like a child and open it, then and there. She nodded her head in thanks and held it.
“Do you not wan
t to open it now? Do you not want to reply?”
“When I have written my reply, I will send for you,” she said simply, asserting her power over him. “I shall send for you when I want you.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” He smoothed the velvet nap of his black breeches to hide his irritation but inwardly he thought it an impertinence that the Infanta, now a widow, should command where before the Princess of Wales had politely requested. He thought he perhaps did not like this new, finer Catalina, after all.
“And have you heard from Their Majesties in Spain?” she asked. “Have they advised you as to their wishes?”
“Yes,” he said, wondering how much he should tell her. “Of course, Queen Isabella is anxious that you are not unwell. She asked me to inquire after your health and to report to her.”
A secretive shadow crossed Catalina’s face. “I shall write to the queen my mother and tell her my news,” she said.
“She was anxious to know…” he began, probing for the answer to the greatest question: Was there an heir? Was the princess with child?
“I shall confide in no one but my mother.”
“We cannot proceed to the settlement of your jointure and your arrangements until we know,” he said bluntly. “It makes a difference to everything.”
She did not flare up as he had thought she would do. She inclined her head, she had herself under tight control. “I shall write to my mother,” she repeated, as if his advice did not much matter.
He saw he would get nothing more from her. But at least the chaplain had told him she could be with child, and he should know. The king would be glad to know that there was at least a possibility of an heir. At any rate she had not denied it. There might be capital to make from her silence. “Then I will leave you to read your letter.” He bowed.
She made a casual gesture of dismissal and turned to look at the flames of the little summertime fire. He bowed again and, since she was not looking at him, scrutinized her figure. She had no bloom of early pregnancy, but some women took it badly in the first months. Her pallor could be caused by morning sickness. It was impossible for a man to tell. He would have to rely on the confessor’s opinion and pass it on with a caution.
I open my mother’s letter with hands that are trembling so much that I can hardly break the seals. The first thing I see is the shortness of the letter, only one page.
“Oh, Madre,” I breathe. “No more?”
Perhaps she was in haste, but I am bitterly hurt to see that she has written so briefly! If she knew how much I want to hear her voice she would have written at twice the length. As God is my witness, I don’t think I can do this without her; I am only sixteen and a half, I need my mother.
I read the short letter through once, and then, almost incredulously, I read it through again.
It is not a letter from a loving mother to her daughter. It is not a letter from a woman to her favorite child, and that child on the very edge of despair. Coldly, powerfully, she has written a letter from a queen to a princess. She writes of nothing but business. We could be a pair of merchants concluding a sale.
She says that I am to stay in whatever house is provided for me until I have had my next course and I know that I am not with child. If that is the case I am to command Dr. de Puebla to demand my jointure as Dowager Princess of Wales and as soon as I have the full money and not before (underlined so there can be no mistake), I am to take ship for Spain.
If, on the other hand, God is gracious, and I am with child, then I am to assure Dr. de Puebla that the money for my dowry will be paid in cash and at once, he is to secure me my allowance as Dowager Princess of Wales, and I am to rest and hope for a boy.
I am to write to her at once and tell her if I think I am with child. I am to write to her as soon as I am certain, one way or the other, and I am to confide also in Dr. de Puebla and to maintain myself under the chaperonage of Doña Elvira.
I fold the letter carefully, matching the edges one to another as if tidiness matters very much. I think that if she knew of the despair that laps at the edges of my mind like a river of darkness, she would have written to me more kindly. If she knew how very alone I am, how grieved I am, how much I miss him, she would not write to me of settlements and jointures and titles. If she knew how much I loved him and how I cannot bear to live without him, she would write and tell me that she loves me, that I am to go home to her at once, without delay.
I tuck the letter into the pocket at my waist, and I stand up, as if reporting for duty. I am not a child anymore. I will not cry for my mother. I see that I am not in the especial care of God since he could let Arthur die. I see that I am not in the especial love of my mother, since she can leave me alone, in a strange land.
She is not only a mother, she is Queen of Spain, and she has to ensure that she has a grandson or, failing a grandson, a watertight treaty. I am not just a young woman who has lost the man she loves. I am a Princess of Spain and I have to produce a grandson or, failing that, a watertight treaty. And, in addition, I am now bound by a promise. I have promised that I will be Princess of Wales again, and Queen of England. I have promised this to the young man to whom I promised everything. I will perform it for him, whatever anyone else wants.
The Spanish ambassador did not report at once to Their Majesties of Spain. Instead, playing his usual double game, he took the chaplain’s opinion first to the King of England.
“Her confessor says that she is with child,” he remarked.
For the first time in days King Henry felt his heart lighten. “Good God, if that were so, it would change everything.”
“Please God it is so. I should be glad of it,” de Puebla agreed. “But I cannot guarantee it. She shows no sign of it.”
“Could be early days,” Henry agreed. “And God knows, and I know, a child in the cradle is not a prince on the throne. It’s a long road to the crown. But it would be a great comfort to me if she was with child—and to the queen,” he added as an afterthought.
“So she must stay here in England until we know for sure,” the ambassador concluded. “And if she is not with child, we shall settle our accounts, you and I, and she shall go home. Her mother asks for her to be sent home at once.”
“We’ll wait and see,” Henry said, conceding nothing. “Her mother will have to wait like the rest of us. And if she is anxious to have her daughter home she had better pay the rest of the dowry.”
“You would not delay the return of the princess to her mother over a matter of money,” the ambassador suggested.
“The sooner everything is settled the better,” the king said smoothly. “If she is with child then she is our daughter and the mother of our heir; nothing would be too good for her. If she is not, then she can go home to her mother as soon as her dowry is paid.”
I know that there is no Mary growing in my womb, there is no Arthur; but I shall say nothing until I know what to do. I dare say nothing until I am sure what I should do. My mother and father will be planning for the good of Spain, King Henry will be planning for the good of England. Alone, I will have to find a way to fulfill my promise. Nobody will help me. Nobody can even know what I am doing. Only Arthur in heaven will understand what I am doing, and I feel far, far away from him. It is so painful, a pain I could not imagine. I have never needed him more than now: now that he is dead, and only he can advise me how to fulfill my promise to him.
Catalina had spent less than a month of seclusion at Croydon Palace when the king’s chamberlain came to tell her that Durham House in the Strand had been prepared for her and she could go there at her convenience.
“Is this where a Princess of Wales would stay?” Catalina demanded urgently of de Puebla, who had been immediately summoned to her privy chamber. “Is Durham House where a princess would be housed? Why am I not to live in Baynard’s Castle again?”
“Durham House is perfectly adequate,” he stammered, taken aback by her fervor. “And your household is not diminished at all. The king has not ask
ed you to dismiss anyone. You are to have an adequate court. And he will pay you an allowance.”
“My jointure as the prince’s widow?”
He avoided her gaze. “An allowance at this stage. He has not been paid your dowry from your parents, remember, so he will not pay your jointure. But he will give you a good sum, one that will allow you to keep your state.”
“I should have my jointure.”
He shook his head. “He will not pay it until he has the full dowry. But it is a good allowance, you will keep a good state.”
He saw that she was immensely relieved. “Princess, there is no question but that the king is respectful of your position,” he said carefully. “You need have no fears of that. Of course, if he could be assured as to your health…”
Again the shuttered look closed down Catalina’s face. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said shortly. “I am well. You can tell him that I am well. Nothing more.”
I am buying time, letting them think that I am with child. It is such agony, knowing that my time of the month has come and gone, that I am ready for Arthur’s seed, but he is cold and gone and he will never come to my bed again, and we will never make his daughter Mary and his son Arthur.
I cannot bear to tell them the truth: I am barren, without a baby to raise for him. And while I say nothing, they have to wait too. They will not send me home to Spain while they hope that I might still be My Lady the Mother of the Prince of Wales. They have to wait.
And while they wait, I can plan what I shall say and what I shall do. I have to be wise as my mother would be and cunning as the fox, my father. I have to be determined like her and secretive like him. I have to think how and when I shall start to tell this lie, Prince Arthur’s great lie. If I can tell it so that it convinces everyone, if I can place myself so that I fulfill my destiny, then Arthur, beloved Arthur, can do as he wished. He can rule England through me, I can marry his brother and become queen. Arthur can live through the child I conceive with his brother. We can make the England we swore that we would make, despite misfortune, despite his brother’s folly, despite my own despair.