Catherine of Aragon (4 page)

11th February 1503

The Queen has given birth to a daughter. There is rejoicing, of course, but of a slightly muted kind. A son would have been so much better. The little girl is to be called Katherine, spelled the English way, and all the Spaniards here are pleased.

13th February 1503

Queen Elizabeth is ill with the child-bed fever. We all went to Mass to pray for her safe recovery, but the smell of incense reminded me of the heavy scent that hung about Ludlow after Arthur had died. I must put such thoughts away, for fear they may come true.

20th February 1503

Our prayers did not save her. Sweet Elizabeth, Queen of England, died today on her 37th birthday. We are plunged again into mourning, and the baby Katherine is sickly and unlikely to live. Rain falls like tears.

4th March 1503

All London is in mourning. The state funeral of the Queen took place today at Westminster Abbey, and the chief mourner was Lady Katherine Courtney, after whom the baby, now also dead, had been called. So much for our Spanish hopes that it had been Catherine who was thus honoured.

It was beautifully done, of course. All along Cheapside, groups of 37 white-clad young girls, one for each year of the Queen's life, stood holding lit tapers, their heads wreathed in leaves and white flowers. Green and white, the Tudor colours. Candles burned in every parish church and torches flared in the sunless London streets, lighting the Queen to her rest.

Only a few weeks ago, anticipating the end of the year's mourning for Arthur, the Queen gave her daughter Margaret a magnificent gown of crimson, trimmed with the black squirrel fur they call pampilyon. Poor Margaret. Once again her marriage is postponed, and now she must face the journey to Scotland, when it comes, without the support of her beloved mother. She is a happy girl, given the chance, and these months of wearing black have damped her gay spirits. She was so glad when half-mourning allowed her to put a pair of embroidered white sleeves to her black dress, and then bright ones of orange sarcenet, which she loved. There was such a fuss in September when the court removed from Baynard's Castle to Westminster and she found that the orange sleeves had been left behind. Richard Justice, the Queen's Page of the Robes, was sent back to fetch them in a hired boat, which he was pleased about because he got paid extra. But now Margaret is in deepest black again, and her marriage will not take place until the summer.

6th March 1503

I found Catherine sitting by the window this morning, staring out at the river in something close to despair. She told me King Henry is thinking of marrying her himself now that Elizabeth is dead. Trying to cheer her up, I said, “But at least that way you would be the Queen of England” – but we both knew how hollow the words were.

Catherine looked at me very straight. “That's the wrong way, Eva,” she said. “I
will
be queen one day, but not through marrying Henry. He is 46 and I am seventeen. With his bad chest and his gout, he might die within a couple of years, and then where would I be? A dowager whom nobody wants. Even if I bore his child, it would not be heir to the throne, for that position is Harry's. So I must be Harry's wife, not his father's.”

She is right, of course, but it seems an impossible hope. Three years to wait before the royal boy is old enough to marry, and even then, she may not be the one they choose.

26th March 1503

The King's mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, has come to Windsor to take over the running of the royal household. She is immensely capable – I remember well those magnificent banquets at the time of Catherine's wedding, all of which were organized by her.

Catherine is looking happier. A letter from Queen Isabella has dealt very firmly with Henry's idea of marrying her daughter. A barbarous notion, she told him. She suggests he should consider the widowed Queen of Naples, who would be much more suitable. Henry, apparently, is sending an envoy out there to inspect her and report back.

5th June 1503

At last Margaret has started on her journey to Scotland for her wedding with James. Henry has gone with her and all her retinue to his mother's mansion in Collyweston, the first step on the way, and they will all stay there for some days, hunting and disporting themselves. Margaret looked happy at last. She rode a white palfrey whose saddlecloth was embroidered with red roses and the lion of Scotland, and a litter fringed in gold followed her so that she could rest and be carried if she tired of riding. The whole train looked magnificent with its banners flying and the baggage carts striped in white and green, and crowds lined the streets to cheer her. The journey will take a month and the wedding is set for 8th August.

Meanwhile, our living conditions get worse. The bread is dark, musty-tasting stuff, made from bad flour that has started to ferment, and I suspect that mice have got at it, too. My stocks of thread and fabric are almost all used up, and I hate to think of the shameful inactivity that will follow when they are gone. Stripped of any pride in my skilled work, I will be reduced to a mere pauper, living on the crumbs of charity. I have not started on a new design for several weeks, and use my remaining silks for the careful mending of our clothes. As to my function as an interpreter, it is never called for now, although Catherine's grasp of English is not good. No English courtier has any need to speak to her. We are utterly forgotten.

 

23rd June 1503

Great news! Uncle Rod's patient diplomacy has succeeded at last – or something has – for a treaty of intended marriage between Harry and Catherine has been signed. There was such a spontaneous lifting of spirits among us that we needed to celebrate, so off we went down the river to Hampton Court, where Henry is building a great palace. Some of the English nobles came with us, for now they notice again that we exist, and several of them brought their dogs and crossbows and falcons for an afternoon's hunting in the countryside. The hawks wore little hoods when they were not flying – as ours do in Spain – but the stitchery of jewels and silver wire on these hoods was exquisite, making the birds look like little emperors as they sat in their darkness.

How strange the English are. In some ways they seem brutish and crude, full of uncouth vulgarity, and yet one hears music sung and played everywhere, and their clothes and linens are a glory of fine, colourful work. They seem to take a lusty joy in beauty of all kinds, and for this one can forgive them much.

5th October 1503

The King has granted Catherine an allowance of 100 pounds a month. She says it will not go far towards keeping us all and paying off her debts (and she wants to retrieve some of the plate she was forced to pawn), but it is much better than nothing.

Nobody gives Uncle Rod any credit for his part in this, though I know it was his work that brought it about. Doña Elvira treats him with open contempt, even though he spoke to the King on her behalf when the Spanish retainers were particularly unruly and caused him to give her a cloth-of-gold cap as a sign of his trust in her authority.

I know what lies behind the courtiers' lack of generosity towards my uncle, though nobody will voice it aloud – at least, not to me. They all know Rodrigo De Puebla is – or was – Jewish, though he converted to Christianity, as did the whole family. We didn't have much choice. Eleven years ago, Queen Isabella exiled all Jews, because for her, the Christian crusade is everything. My last letter from Mama says the Queen has permitted an Inquisition to be set up, testing the true faith of anyone about whom there is a shadow of doubt. There are rumours, she says, that its officers do not shrink from the use of terrible tortures or even death. For the first time, I am almost glad to be away from my country. My uncle and I never speak of the blood tie that binds us to a persecuted people – it is safer not to. But I see in his face sometimes a great weariness, and understand it.

Catherine, alas, has no understanding of my uncle's slow, careful work. She is impatient by nature, and much preferred Don Pedro Ayala of the wink and the charming smile – but he has been recalled to Spain.

8th November 1503

Fog shrouds the garden and hangs heavy over the river. There is no joy in going out, and the house is full of bickering and whispers. The question of whether Catherine's marriage to Arthur was a proper one is still being wrangled over, and my uncle says they are waiting for the Pope to give a judgement.

On another matter, though, my uncle has had a great success. He has brought about an agreement that English merchants trading in Spain will have all the rights and privileges of Spaniards, paying no extra charges and being free to load their cargoes without taxation. The same is true for Spaniards trading in England. I, at least, am very proud of him.

27th November 1503

The court has shifted its quarters from Windsor to Richmond. They move several times a year, lucky things, leaving the previous palace to be cleaned of soot and stripped of its vilely muddy and stinking rushes. I must say, much of the filth and stink in the houses is the fault of their occupants. If the men would refrain from pissing in the fireplaces, it would help. We Spaniards are not included in the “progress”, as they call it, of the King and his court from one place to another, and Durham House is becoming disgusting.

18th February 1504

A young English lord wants to marry Maria de Rochas. He is the grandson of the Earl of Derby, very handsome in the fair, English way, and Maria is much in love with him. She went to Catherine to ask her blessing on the match, and to raise the question of a dowry. As one of Catherine's ladies, she should have dowry money provided by the royal purse – but Catherine has no funds to meet a request of this size. She has written to her father about it, but there is silence.

1st March 1504

Still no response from King Ferdinand on the question of Maria's dowry. She is beginning to fear that her suitor will look elsewhere.

9th March 1504

Poor Maria. Young Derby has withdrawn his offer, and she is utterly cast down. To make matters worse, Doña Elvira went to her and said she was glad the “silly affair” was over, for she wants Maria for her own son, Iñigo Manrique, master of the king's pages.

Catherine is furious. She suspects that Doña Elvira intercepted her letters to Ferdinand and made sure they were never sent. There was a tremendous quarrel this morning, and Catherine has told my uncle he must do something about replacing Doña Elvira. Uncle Rod looked helpless and pointed out that Queen Isabella has every faith in the duenna, who is charged to act as mother-substitute to Catherine while she is in England. Catherine retorted that she has no need of a mother-substitute. At eighteen, she is old enough to run her own affairs, and if she wants to get rid of Doña Elvira she should be able to do so. Doña Elvira remarked to her husband – but loud enough to be overheard – that it would take more than a jumped-up little Jewish go-between to remove her from her post. There are times when I hate her.

12th December 1504

Terrible news. We have just heard that Queen Isabella died two weeks ago, on 26th November. Catherine is huddled in her bed, weeping, and the courtiers stand in hushed groups, talking in low voices about what is to happen now. My uncle has gone to Windsor, to consult with the King.

If only Catherine's brother were still alive. So many problems would be solved were he here to step into his mother's shoes. Ferdinand has no claim in his own right, though as Isabella's widower he will fight hard to retain his kingship. Officially, the throne must go to Juana, Catherine's oldest sister – but she is married to Prince Philip of the Netherlands, and lives with him and their children in that flat, damp country which, people tell me, is even duller than England. It's a long way from Spain, and Dutch Philip will seem a strange king on the Spanish throne.

I wonder what Juana is like now. It's years since I have seen her. She was always very beautiful, as dark-eyed and graceful as a deer, and as easily startled. She fell deeply in love with Philip at first sight. Catherine used to read out her letters in those early days, and we would giggle over the passion they expressed. We were only young, and I suppose we found it a bit embarrassing. Does Juana still feel the same about him, I wonder? It is rumoured that Philip is constantly unfaithful to her. One of the English ladies smiled and said, “You know they call her Juana the Mad?” I hope it is not true.

16th December 1504

A letter came from Mama today. She speaks of the Queen's death, naturally. And she says Juana's nerves have been badly affected by her husband's infidelities – or so the gossip goes in Spain. Poor Juana. Has her husband really driven her mad?

Uncle Rod shrugged wearily when I spoke to him about it. Neither Philip nor Ferdinand want Juana to be thought sane, he says, because she in fact is the one who inherits the throne, and the big quarrel is between her father and her husband, both of whom want to rule in her place.

I so much hope for Catherine's sake that Ferdinand will manage to go on being king. It has been a terrible blow to her to lose her mother, and if her father is pushed out by Philip, it will be the end of all Catherine's hopes of a match with Harry. Her only value is in being the daughter of the Spanish king, and if that is lost, then so is everything else. But Philip is very powerful. His father, Maximilian, is Emperor of all the German states and of Austria, Flanders and Burgundy, a man of ruthless ambition, backed by all the authority of his aristocratic Habsburg family. I fear the worst, though I will not say so to Catherine.

Sometimes I wish I had someone else to talk to. Not just Uncle Rod, wise and kind though he is, but a friend my own age who would share my worries. Someone strong and dependable, a man-friend, I suppose I mean. Things are hard here, and getting harder. Catherine insists on using most of her allowance to reclaim her valuables, saying they are her only security for the future, but this means we are still half-destitute. We live on little but bread now, and on gristly bits of meat that we would have thrown to the dogs when we first came here. I can't afford to get my shoes mended, so my feet are constantly cold, and water-sodden if I try to venture out. But I must not complain to Catherine. Most of the Spaniards here are angry with her, and she has enough to bear.