Patience, Princess Catherine (13 page)

As I approached my nineteenth birthday in the autumn of 1504, I had lived in England for three years. An entire twelvemonth had passed without papal approval for my marriage to the prince of Wales. The pope had died soon after the request for a dispensation was delivered to him, and a month later his successor was also dead. After the election of yet another pope, Julius II, the request passed into his hands. On his decision I now waited.

I wrote again to my mother, of this matter, as well as of Maria's dowry. Still there was no reply.

I began to worry. My mother had explained before I left that I must not count on letters, for it could take many weeks and even months, when weather prevented ships from sailing, for a letter to reach her and for a reply to make its way back to me. "There will be many people to help you in times of difficulty," she assured me. "And I have trained you well to find your own way. You must think on my words, and remember what I have taught you."

On the twenty-sixth of November, 1504, I posted a third, pleading letter to my mother on Maria's behalf. Surely she would reply to this request! A few weeks later Don Rodrigo shuffled into my apartments with a letter bearing the royal seal of Aragon. "I fear that I bring news of the worst sort, my lady," he mumbled as he handed over the letter.

My fingers trembled as I broke the seal and scanned the brief message from my father. My mother was dead. On the very day I had written my last letter to her, my mother lay dying. I was sobbing as I passed the letter to Doña Elvira, who let out a shriek as though mortally wounded. Don Rodrigo offered his condolences and left quietly as my duenna and I wept, each of us wrapped in our separate grief.

I had known when I left Spain that I might never see my father and mother again, but I had pushed that understanding to the farthest corner of my mind. It was true that I had had few letters from her, as she had warned me. Yet I had always been comforted by the knowledge that somewhere, though far away, she cared about me deeply. Now she was gone forever, and my world seemed a cold and frightening place without her. Bereft, I plunged into a sea of grief.

I was joined in my grieving by Doña Elvira, whose loss seemed as deep as my own. In the first days of pain and sorrow, my duenna and I spent long hours together, speaking of my mother. "I loved Queen Isabella above all women," said Doña Elvira. "Her strength, her intelligence, her goodness. She has always been the heart and soul of Castilla. Without her, there is no Spain."

Much later I learned that, at the hour when Death came for my mother, he was raced to her bedside by a messenger bearing a letter from Pope Julius, granting the dispensation for my marriage. Believing my future was finally assured, my mother had died in peace. For that I was most grateful.

But there was no dowry for Maria.

Richmond Palace, June 1505

 

Tomorrow, the twenty-eighth of June, would be Henry's fourteenth birthday. Plans had been made for a grand celebration of his coming of age: Henry would no longer be a boy. He already had the form and size of a man, taller than his father and nearly all the men in his father's court, though not yet as tall as Brandon. There would be feasting and music, but Henry looked forward most excitedly to the tournaments, in which he expected that he would perform splendidly. Princess Catherine would be seated among the spectators with her ladies, watching him and certain to be impressed.

The prince, with the help of Brandon, was trying on a suit of fine new armor recently completed for tomorrow's
tournament. Just then, a page entered the armory and announced that the king would see the prince of Wales at once in the royal chambers.

Henry sighed. These summonses arrived from the king several times daily, and Henry had no choice but to obey. He expected this would have to do with the next clay's ceremonies. Perhaps his father was bestowing upon him a few more titles, though Henry could not think which ones he had not yet received. Or perhaps some additional duty was about to be thrust upon him. Whatever it was, Henry was eager to be done with it. Brandon helped him out of the clumsy armor, and Henry followed the page to his father's chambers.

King Henry sat at a table, writing on a sheet of parchment. Henry knelt and waited until his father laid aside his quill and gazed at him. "Tomorrow is the day upon which you reach the formal age of consent," said the king. "Therefore, you have serious business that must be taken care of today."

Henry bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."

"You will appear before the bishop of Winchester and renounce your betrothal to Princess Catherine."

Henry's head jerked upright. His father had warned him of the possibility, but he was nevertheless surprised. "Renounce my betrothal? On what grounds, my lord?"

"That you were a minor at the time the betrothal was contracted," snapped the king. "As of today you are still a minor, and hence the marriage contract is legally null
and void." The king folded his hands and smiled with satisfaction.

"But what of Princess Catherine?" Henry asked the question he had not asked before. "What will become of her?"

The king laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "That is a question her father should have been asking all along. The king of Spain has not kept his side of the bargain. Where is the gold that he promised to pay me as her dowry?" The king leaned closer to the prince, his eyes glinting. "Think of this, Henry: Once the betrothal has been broken off, you are free! We can find you afar more suitable wife, one who is much, much richer. There is doubtless afar better bargain to be had than your wretched little Spanish princess in her tattered gowns."

Henry stared at his father, his mind in turmoil. He was beginning to understand the extent of the king's greed. His father was already the richest man in the kingdom. Why then was he driven to seek even greater wealth? Henry thought of Catherine. He pitied her, and he also liked her. But beyond mere liking, there was something more, something deeper: He had come to believe that marrying her was a debt of honor he owed his dead brother. He was about to say this to his father when a trumpet announced the arrival of members of the king's privy council.

The king dismissed Henry before he could utter a word. "Be ready to meet with the bishop within the hour. Speak of this to no one."

 

F
OR WEEKS
P
RINCESS
M
ARY HAD EXCITEDLY DESCRIBED
to me the festivities planned for Prince Henry's fourteenth birthday. There would be banquets with music and dancing and disguisings, followed by tournaments in which the prince was expected to demonstrate his prowess in the tiltyard. The more she told me, the more eagerly I looked forward to what would surely be a splendid event.

Again I appealed to my treasurer, Juan de Cuero. "As Prince Henry's betrothed wife, I shall be among the most honored ladies at the birthday celebration. It would be unseemly for me to appear in one of my worn-out gowns." I produced a gold bracelet set with jewels. "Sell this, I beg you, that I may present myself to the royal family decently dressed."

"My lady princess, I cannot," said Cuero, sadly shaking his head. "The bracelet belongs to your dowry."

I implored him. He was adamant. I wept. He appeared to weaken. I fell to my knees and begged. At last he agreed. The bracelet was sold, and I ordered a new gown, to be prepared in all haste, in time for the celebration on the twenty-eighth of June.

But days passed, and no invitation arrived. Had it somehow gone astray? I questioned my servants, who swore no message had been delivered. Time was growing short. Perhaps, I thought, King Henry had decided to hold the festivities at Greenwich or one of the other royal palaces, and Doña Elvira had taken it upon herself to refuse me permission to attend.

"What do you know of this, Doña Elvira?" I asked suspiciously.

"Nothing whatsoever," she replied haughtily. "Perhaps your questions are better directed to our ambassador. It is Don Rodrigo who knows the king's mind, not I."

The night before the banquet, as I lay sleepless and miserable in my bed, I finally admitted to myself that I had not been invited after all. But why? Surely Henry would have wanted me, his betrothed, to be present. Was it the king, then? Had something happened of which I had no knowledge? Where
was
that perfidious ambassador, Don Rodrigo? Early the next morning, exhausted after my sleepless night and torn between outrage and bitter disappointment, I ordered my beautiful new gown packed away.

On the afternoon of the banquet I sat in the garden by the river with my ladies, my spirits at their lowest ebb, and watched listlessly as Payaso romped about, dashing to the river's edge to bark at the swans. Inez and Francesca gathered nosegays of roses, while Maria sat quietly by my side, mending one of my petticoats. We were always mending something! Suddenly clouds gathered and darkened, blocking the sun. I called for Payaso, and we rushed to the palace as the first cold drops of rain began to fall.

Just as we reached cover, Rodrigo Gonzales de Puebla was announced. I invited the ambassador to my privy chamber, observing as I did so that his garments were in even worse condition than my own, patches upon patches, stains upon stains. My ladies immediately vanished—they liked the ambassador no more than I did—but Doña Elvira appeared, making it plain that she had no intention of leaving me alone with him. For once I welcomed her presence.

Don Rodrigo paced agitatedly the length and breadth of my chamber. Finally he halted before me and blurted out his stunning news: "Prince Henry has broken off your betrothal."

"Broken it off?" My chest tightened so that I could scarcely breathe, and I sank weakly onto a bench.

"It pains me to tell you this, my lady princess. Yesterday Prince Henry appeared in secret before the bishop of Winchester and repudiated the marriage contract. The prince claimed it was made before he reached the age of consent."

"What stupid tales you carry!" interrupted Doña Elvira, glaring at the ambassador.

"Unfortunately, my tales are wholly true, madam," Don Rodrigo replied with a perfunctory bow in her direction. "There are no secrets that cannot be found out."

I covered my face with my hands. Never in my life had I felt so ill-used, or so frightened of what my future now held.

"I have more to tell," the ambassador said, his voice cracking.

I dropped my hands and gazed up at him tearfully. "Then tell it, Don Rodrigo," I said. "Tell all of it now and be done."

The ambassador sighed and rubbed his nose, another of his irritating habits. "King Henry has informed me that he is no longer obligated to continue your allowance of one hundred crowns per month."

"And he intends to reduce it to—?" I asked, my mouth dry as dust.

"To nothing, my lady."

I could not find the words to reply to this abysmal news, but Doña Elvira attacked the ambassador with every insult at her command. "
¡Cobarde!
" she cried. "Coward! Did you leave your manhood in Spain? Why have you permitted this to happen?"

Don Rodrigo recoiled before her sharp-tongued assault. "Doña Elvira, please understand that I can do nothing. When I protested the cruelty of his decision, King Henry merely referred me to King Ferdinand. 'He is her father, let him support her.' Those were his words." Puebla turned to me, but I could scarcely bring myself to look at him. "Before I came here today, I dispatched a courier with a letter to your father. He must be made to understand how desperate your situation has become. For my part, my lady, I would gladly help you if I could, but as you can see, I have nothing of my own. My purse is empty."

Doña Elvira hurled a few more epithets at the cringing ambassador. As soon as he had fled my chambers, I slipped into the darkest despair for the hopelessness of my life. I had once envisioned the brightest of futures, and now it seemed I had no future at all.

 

I was not the only one who had lost hope. Maria de Salinas also saw her dreams shattered. When it became apparent that she would have no dowry, negotiations for Maria's betrothal to Edward Stanley were called off. Her eyes were still red and swollen from weeping for the loss of her true love when Doña Elvira's son, Don Iñigo, began to court her.

I had suspected for some time that my equerry fancied himself in love with the charming Maria, admired by all for her beauty. But Don Iñigo was of a dour temperament—much like Doña Elvira's—and his person not at all engaging. Beyond his hearing, and his mother's, we called him
El Sapo:
"The Toad."

"Never, never, never!" Maria cried out as she wept in my arms. "Better to drown myself in the River Thames than to accept
El Sapo
as a husband!"

When Doña Elvira learned of Maria's refusal of Don Iñigo, she reacted with disgust. "I have always considered Maria rather stupid," she snorted contemptuously. "Now I am certain of it. My son would make her a fine and loyal husband, and he will take her without a dowry. Who else is willing to do that?"

I knew that Doña Elvira was right. Without a dowry, Maria had little chance of marriage. But I also knew that once Maria's mind was made up, she was unlikely to change it. I tried to keep my friend and my duenna apart until Maria was of a calmer mind, but one dreadful day their mutual animosity erupted.

"I frankly cannot imagine why my son would want to marry a person as obdurate and ill-bred as you, Maria!" said Doña Elvira.

"Because, Doña Elvira, he is as vain and selfish as his mother, and he does not take into account the feelings of anyone but himself!" cried Maria.

I intervened between the two and later begged Maria to reconsider. "Maria," I pleaded with her, "until my father sends the dowry he owes and everything is made right and I am actually married to Prince Henry, I shall not be able to help you. I beg you to understand that!"