Catherine of Aragon (8 page)

When the procession had entered the Abbey, no one could hold the crowds back. They fell upon the white damask cloth that had lined the way in and hacked it to pieces, grabbing and snatching at scraps of it to take home in an almost religious frenzy, as though the tattered bits of silk they clutched were an actual part of royalty. But their avidness made me think of crows tearing at a dead lamb, and I found them frightening. Perhaps they frighten kings as well, which is why they like to show their wealth and power. And why any real trouble-maker is promptly hanged.

27th June 1509

The feasting goes on and on, in joyous celebration – and there is a sense of relief, too, as though we have all escaped from a crabbed hand that kept us from happiness. There is a new gaiety about the jousting and carnival, a new sense of youth and high spirits. Energy seems to radiate from Henry, who is free at last from that stuffy room with no door except the one into his father's chamber. He is laughing and tireless, charging across the tiltyard on the great stallion he rides, banqueting and dancing – but all the time his eyes seek Catherine's in an intimacy that almost makes me blush, and he constantly returns to her side to run his hand down her back and touch his lips to hers. She is his first love, and he cannot get enough of her.

Catherine matches him perfectly. She shares his joy in music and dancing, revels as he does in new clothes and the glory of jewels and rich embroideries, and yesterday she was out with him on a hunting expedition, strong and graceful on her white horse, a hawk on her wrist, truly the warrior queen's daughter. But she has learned much in these hard years, and she has a composure about her which compels her young husband's admiration. She is no longer a girl; she has become a graceful, wise young woman. She has had eight years to think about becoming Henry's queen, and now that it has come about, she is performing her new role faultlessly.

29th June 1509

Alas, Lady Margaret Beaufort died this afternoon, quite suddenly. She retired to her room after supervising yet another sumptuous meal of roast swan and fine wines, and fell into eternal sleep. Her death grieves me more than any I have known save that of Uncle Rod. Henry wept in Catherine's arms when he was told the news, though he quickly gathered his dignity as he had to. He is the king, even though he throws himself into his games of hunting and music and mock-war with a boy's intensity.

At least Lady Margaret lived to see the despatch brought by an envoy from Scotland this morning. A treaty of peace has been signed between England and Scotland, thank God, and the letter from King James that came with it was full of warm congratulations on Henry's marriage and coronation. Dare I hope these brothers-in-law will at last learn to trust each other?

Doubts nag at my mind. Henry announced the treaty as a triumph, and I am sure he is relieved to know that Scotland will not attack from the north should he go to war with France, but somehow I can see Uncle Rod shaking his head.

3rd July 1509

As one might expect, Lady Margaret left a careful, detailed will. Her library of glorious books is to go to the college she founded in Cambridge, though Henry has been given some of the best of them. He is the head of the family now, so he inherits the bulk of her estate, but she shared her jewellery between the royal grand-daughters and Catherine. A secret came to light, too. When Arthur died, his possessions were shared among the family, but because Margaret was due to marry James and go to Scotland, her bequest of gold and jewels and plate was kept in trust for her, and she has never yet received it.

Henry's expression did not change when this was read out, but I thought it was rather disgraceful. Uncle Rod left me some books, which I treasure, but how would I have felt if Gonsalvo had refused to give them to me? Such a thing never crossed my mind, of course – or his. He had the books carefully packed and sent to me only a week later. But the property of royal families is different. It represents bargaining power, and I suppose the old King could not bear the idea of such valuable stuff going to Scotland, a country that was always a potential enemy. As so often, I feel sorry for Margaret – but at least she is genuinely happy in her marriage. Catherine says her letters always speak with pride and affection of her Scottish husband, whom she obviously adores. Perhaps my pity is misplaced, and I should envy her.

22nd July 1509

Michel is here! No creeping through the back door this time – he has come as the court jester with a delegation from Prince Charles, Philip's son, the boy who will marry Mary.

I have hardly managed to see him. There was the inevitable banquet tonight, and Michel was joking and clowning. Henry laughed so much that he spluttered wine all over his gold-embroidered doublet – messy man – but he gave Michel six pounds at the end of the evening, and summoned him to his private chambers, that he and the Queen might have some further amusement. Sometimes I curse Henry's inexhaustible energy.

23rd July 1509

Dear Lord, I give thanks for this day! Early this morning, I heard a tune being whistled in the garden, and jumped up to look out. There was Michel, standing on the grass all silver with dew, smiling up at me. He held out his hands, and I said, “Wait.” I ran down just as I was, in my nightdress, with my feet bare and my hair loose. And he dropped to one knee, laughing and yet serious, and … asked me to be his wife.

When I could catch her alone I told Catherine, and she kissed me and wished me well. There was a time when we would have hugged each other, but she is the queen now, and even I, her childhood friend, have to remember that. But she still loves me, and promised she would tell Henry and ask him to do what he could for us. She kept her word, for he summoned Michel and me to go and see him in his private chamber. We did not know what to expect, but he seemed amused and gave us his blessing. Then he said the Queen did not want to lose me, and for a moment my heart lurched in panic, lest I should be forced to stay in London when Michel goes back to the Netherlands. But Henry smiled, looking very pleased with himself. He had arranged an exchange of fools, he said. Michel would stay here and in his place John Scot would go back to young Charles. John Scot is a dwarf who came here with the party that returned from escorting Margaret to her wedding in Edinburgh, and I have never much liked him. Perhaps Henry feels likewise, because he grinned and said he had the best of the bargain.

Michel turned at the door to doff his cap with a courtly bow, and managed to get the feather stuck between his knees. I tugged at his arm, fearing he had gone too far, but Henry roared with laughter. Michel says clowning is always about going too far. That's why it's funny, he says. You live on the edge of disaster, but just avoid it.

Don Alessandro will marry us in September. I am so happy that I can hardly breathe.

21st September 1509

I have hardly thought about writing my diary. With Michel here, I am not lonely, so I haven't felt the same need to use the blank pages as a substitute for someone to talk to. And on the best day of my life I was too busy living it to think of writing about it. We were married here in the chapel at Windsor, and Catherine came, together with dozens of courtiers both English and Spanish. There was a feast afterwards, followed by music and dancing, and for us there was no embarrassing ritual of bishops and blessings. Our first night as a married couple was private to us.

Catherine gave me a delicate gold pendant set with a diamond and small sapphires and, as a better present still, whispered her secret in my ear. She is with child! I hug the knowledge as an added delight in that glorious day, even though everyone knows it now.

I pray that Catherine's baby will live and be healthy. Michel says the newborn sons and daughters of queens take one look at the world, realize they are royal and promptly die. Who can blame them, he says? I should not laugh, but I do. My life is full of laughter now.

14th November 1509

News has just reached us from Scotland that Margaret has given birth to a son. The child seems healthy, and he is to be called Arthur, in memory of Margaret's brother. Perhaps Margaret has been thinking of the bequest Arthur left her, and hopes this gentle hint may nudge Henry towards sending it. “She'll be lucky,” Michel says. And he's probably right.

30th January 1510

Catherine has given birth before her due time, to a little girl who was dead when she came into the world. All over the court, I hear people say, “At least it was a girl”, trying to console themselves. The loss of a son would have been so much worse. I went to see Catherine this evening. She is not seriously ill, thank God, but she is white-faced and wretched, and I could not find words to comfort her. We both know childbirth is a dangerous business – but at least she herself is alive. So many women die.

I could not bring myself to tell her that I am myself pregnant. To tell the truth, it frightens me a little, but Michel reminds me of what he said about royal children. Our baby will not be burdened with the hopes of nations, so it will be carefree and healthy.

It may not be merely the hopes of nations that cast such a blight on the Tudor women's attempts to produce heirs. I have heard that an illness runs through the royal line, transmitted to their wives and affecting their unborn children, causing them to die in the womb or be born sickly and short-lived. Nobody says this aloud, but the rumour runs underground like the roots of sorrel, popping up in a new growth of gossip and head-shaking every time a royal child fails to live. I must not listen, in case my own baby is affected by the very idea. In any case, I'll be too busy for idle talk. I have to make little clothes and caps and shawls as well as keep up with my work at court. Catherine has entrusted me with the supervision of all the embroidery done by her staff of needlewomen, and while I am flattered, and pleased to have the money it brings, the next months are going to be frantically busy.

16th August 1510

Three days ago my daughter was born. She is pink and beautiful, and her name is Rosanna, Rose for her pinkness and health, and Anna because it is my mother's name. I have sent a letter to Mama with the news. How I wish she could be here!

Michel is so proud of his daughter. He cradles her lovingly, offering his finger to the grip of her little hand. Her birth was a long, agonizing struggle, but all that is easily forgotten in the joy of her living presence. Daily I thank God for her.

 

17th August 1510

As if to underline my good fortune, a messenger from Scotland today brought the news that Margaret's little son, Arthur, has died. This is the third child she has lost. Michel remarked that Henry will be pleased. “That leaves the field open for him and Catherine,” he said. A cynical observation, but perhaps it is true. Catherine is pregnant again, and the whole court is praying for her.

12th October 1510

We have a new ambassador, a replacement for Fuensalida. This one, too, is a strutting popinjay, but it doesn't matter much. Henry turns to Catherine whenever he needs guidance, and she is always ready with a quiet word of advice or the supply of a needed fact.

She amazes me now. I'd never have thought she could play so many parts, all of them with such grace and self-assurance. Henry is still a boy at heart – perhaps some boyhood is owed to him after the years of being confined by his careful father – and he loves to play games. Sometimes he and his friends dress up as Robin Hood and his outlaws, or as Moors with black faces, or booted Russians, and come bursting into the room where Catherine and her ladies are sitting, as if to take us prisoner. Catherine always jumps up and shrieks with just the right mixture of delight and theatrical terror, joining in his game because she loves him and because he is her king.

At other times she is very much the diplomat. Henry has been worrying about Ferdinand having taken a French wife and (worse) having signed a peace pact with France, but Catherine looked at him calmly with her grey eyes. “My lord,” she said respectfully, “you are a great statesman; you will understand my father's motives. In his place, threatened by attack from France, would you not play for time? Make a marriage, sign a pact, buy a few months of safety? If you wish it, he will be on your side when the time comes. Believe me.” And he had no choice but to smile down at her – she comes barely to his shoulder – then take her in his arms and call her his clever little vixen.

Even Catherine can't always restrain Henry, though. He's like a young bull let out of his shed in the spring, Michel says, ready to charge at anything that catches his eye. He loves the idea of war. To him it means honour and glory, a chance to be thought of with the same respect as that earlier Henry, Henry V, who beat the French at Agincourt. He is so full of this idea that such things as tact and carefulness are often forgotten. At a meeting with the French ambassador last week, he quite forgot that Catherine had advised him to follow her father's example and sign a temporary peace treaty. When this was suggested, he blew up instantly and roared, “
I
ask for peace with France? Who dares say so?” The tale has run round the court with much delighted gossip about how Catherine had to call for an adjournment and some wine while she calmed her husband down and made him see sense.

She has succeeded in bringing Henry and her father together, at least for the purpose of this proposed war. Ferdinand has reminded Henry that the area surrounding the French city of Bordeaux used to be under English rule until about 60 years ago. Its citizens, he says, are longing to have Henry as their king. Michel snorted with laughter when he heard this, and said the French would rather be ruled by a pig than by Henry. (That, of course, is strictly between ourselves.) Meanwhile, Catherine expects her next baby in January, and Henry is pleased with himself. God willing, he will become a father and the liberator of the suffering people of France. Or so he hopes.

1st January 1511