Patience, Princess Catherine (7 page)

By four o'clock darkness was closing in, and even Henry was ready to leave the park for the warmth of a blazing fire. Supper, taken with good appetite, was followed by evening prayers, in which he never failed to mention the members of the royal family by name, beginning with his grandmother, Lady Margaret, and now including Catherine, princess of Wales. Arthur was so fortunate to have married such an appealing wife—and intelligent as well! Henry thought often of the Spanish princess—
Catalina, a pretty name—
wondering how she fared at Ludlow with dear, dull Arthur. She would have a merrier time of it if he, Henry, were there.

Weary at last, he retired to his bedchamber, bade Brandon a good night, and fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

 

E
ARLY IN
D
ECEMBER WE MADE OUR FAREWELLS TO
King Henry and Queen Elizabeth and the rest of the family and set out from Richmond. The duke of York put on a great show of his good-bye, telling me that I must say
au revoir,
thus adding another French phrase to my small vocabulary.

Days before our departure, many of my countrymen prepared to return to Spain—not only the bishops and tided gentlemen, but also the trumpeters, cooks, servers, and others who had been sent to assist with the wedding. How it saddened me to see them leave! A part of my heart went with them.

Some sixty Spaniards remained with me in England. Doña Elvira hovered close by, murmuring words of encouragement when I needed them, or relendessly enforcing rules she insisted had been laid down by my mother, which I could not disprove. How much she annoyed me! But I could not argue with her, for though I had been well schooled in obedience, I had not yet learned to assert myself.

Doña Elvira's husband, Don Pedro Manrique, served as my majordomo, in charge of my household. Their son, Iñigo, tall and gaunt as his mother, silent as his father, was my equerry, charged with the care of our horses and mules. Padre Alessandro heard my confessions and said mass for us. My fools, Santiago and Urraca, did their best to amuse me, and the minstrels, however downcast they may have felt, were ready to strum us a merry tune whenever we stopped to rest. And my ladies! I could not have done without Maria, Inez, and Francesca, always present to soothe and encourage me, no matter how much they suffered from the strange food and foul weather.

The air had turned sharply colder since my arrival in England, and I traveled inside the royal litter, bundled in furs, sometimes cupping my hands over my nose to warm it. My ladies, who took turns riding in the litter with me, and our maidservants all complained of the icy winds. The English appeared undisturbed by the cold that found its way into our very bones. Even Arthur, who was not robust, seemed not to mind spending the day on horseback, regardless of the elements. Francesca shivered and wept, crying that her tears turned to ice on her cheeks. I wondered myself how I would endure the long winter, but I tried to put on a cheerful face for my new husband, to hide from him my discomfort.

The farther we traveled to the north and west, the wilder the countryside became. We were bound for the Marches, the borderland between England and Wales. Centuries before, a line of heavily fortified castles had been built along that border as a defense against the barbarian hordes to the west. Now one of these ancient castles would be my home.

I understood little of what was expected of Arthur, except that this was the far edge of England, that the Welsh were an unruly lot, and Arthur's presence was expected to help maintain peace and order. Perhaps, I thought, I might be of help to him in this, for I was accustomed to the way my parents always worked together as a team to unite the peoples of Aragón and Castilla.

Along our route the good country people turned out to cheer us, skin reddened and noses dripping. We made stops at several great manor houses, property of the prince of Wales, and I passed my sixteenth birthday at Bewdley, where a special feast had been prepared in my honor.

To the table that night servitors carried one of the strangest dishes I had ever seen. The forward half of a suckling pig had been stitched to the rear half of a capon, the remaining back half of the piglet stitched to the front end of the capon, both creatures then stuffed with a mixture of bread and eggs and roasted upon a spit. Gilded with gold foil and accompanied by blaring trumpets, this creation, called a cockentrice, was presented upon silver platters, as though it were the most marvelous dish in the world.

I stole a glance at Doña Elvira, who looked as though she might faint at the sight of it. "
¡Qué horror!
" she muttered. Even the hardy Padre Alessandro looked a little squeamish.

The cockentrice aside, I wished we could have stayed on at Bewdley, set in the midst of a lovely park close by the gentle Severn River. Knowing that was impossible, I hoped Ludlow's castle would turn out to be as charming as the Bewdley manor.

When we arrived at Ludlow, I was most disappointed. Surrounded by a deep moat, the ancient castle loomed forbiddingly over the village. Arthur proudly led me through a gate in the curtain wall, thicker than the height of a man, across an open space to an inner wall, and through yet another portal to the inner bailey. Though I thought the castle grim from the outside, I found the inside to be more cheerful. Fires blazed in enormous hearths, colorful tapestries warmed the rough stone walls, and candles brightened the dark chambers. Arthur and his gentlemen escorted me to my apartments with great ceremony. When he had left me for his own apartments in another part of the castle, I inspected the bed with its several mattresses stuffed with wool and the rich tapestries that enclosed it and pronounced it satisfactory. Doña Elvira sniffed, glaring her general disapproval, but ordered our goods unpacked.

"I shall be able to sleep well enough here, I suppose," she said.

I could not conceal my surprise. "In my chamber, Doña Elvira?"

"As your esteemed parents, the kings of Spain, have instructed," she said in a tone that allowed no argument.

Once more I chose to keep silent rather than challenge my duenna. When I think back upon it now, I wonder at how meekly I accepted her assertion that my parents had ordered it. Had they really told her that she must sleep with me even after I became a wife? Whether they had or not, I decided that surely it was my husband's obligation to tell her otherwise. But, to be truthful, I felt more relief than disappointment, for I was not eager for Arthur to begin visits to my bed that must inevitably end in "the conjugal act," as he called it.

 

We had arrived at Ludlow the week before the feast of the Nativity. My first Yuletide spent away from home in a strange land was part heartache and part enchantment for me. The wild-haired, bearded Welsh chieftains came to our banquets dressed in leather and sheepskin rather than silk and velvet, to pay their respects to their young prince and to me, his bride. They brought with them harpists and other musicians, and after the feasting ended they would stay until the small hours of the morning, drinking great flagons of ale, singing their dirgelike tunes, and reciting the story of their misty past in long poems. Though I understood not a single word of their language, which sounded even more strange to my ears than did English, I loved the rolling cadences of their voices.

Often, I called upon my minstrels to entertain our guests with songs from Spain that gladdened my heart but at the same time filled it with longing. On the eve of Christmas Francesca reminded me of the tiny oil lamps that were lighted in the windows of every home, from castle to cottage, to welcome the Christ child. And then Maria began to speak of the delicious cakes made of almonds and honey and scented with lemons. I could almost taste them. Nothing is so wrenching as thoughts of one's old life at Yuletide, and these tender memories set us to weeping.

Then Inez, always practical, scolded us. "That was our old life," she said. "This is our new one."

"Indulge us a little, dear Inez," I begged her. "You are right, but that does not lessen our yearning."

During this tranquil season, Arthur sometimes conducted me to various parts of the rambling old castle, so that I might become familiar with my home and its long history. During our walks he described to me life at his father's court, sometimes adding, "When I am king and you are my queen, we shall do the same."

Each New Year's morning, Arthur told me, he and his brother and sisters were summoned to the king's bedchamber, where they watched silently as their father received gifts from every member of his court according to rank, from highest to lowest. Next, his mother entered the chamber and received her gifts in the same manner.

"I was third," Arthur said. "And then York. After that, my sisters. Little Mary was always the last to see her gifts, and by then the poor thing was so exhausted she could scarcely mumble thanks. Perhaps that is a custom we could change."

"Gifts on New Year's Day?" I asked, explaining that in Spain we exchanged gifts on the Feast of the Three Kings, the sixth of January.

"The sixth of January is known as Twelfth Night," Arthur said, "an occasion for merrymaking. Sometimes the revelers drink too much ale. You may not find it to your liking, Catherine."

Catherine.
Not Catalina. Members of my Spanish retinue continued to call me Catalina, but to my husband I had a different name. Slowly my ear was growing accustomed to the way Arthur spoke Latin, and his to mine, so that our conversations flowed more easily. But I was still not used to being called Catherine.

Twelfth Night arrived. Sir Richard Pole, the prince's chamberlain, carried a brimming bowl of spiced ale into the Great Hall of the castle, crying "Wassail! Wassail!" (I learned that it means "Good health!") A little band of minstrels and choristers played and sang, the ale was drunk—I merely pretended—and the feasting began. "Shield of brawn" was served, boar meat steeped in vinegar. The English consumed it with gusto, but it proved too strong for my stomach. I felt quite ill afterwards and retired early to my chambers. Thus I was not present when the feasting turned to drunkenness, though I heard whispers for days afterward of mildly improper behavior.

Twelfth Night marked the end of Yuletide, and Arthur returned to his regular duties, meeting with the council that the king had appointed to help him govern. I saw little of him during those busy days, but I had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Lady Margaret Pole, wife of Sir Richard. Lady Margaret was several years older than I, a handsome woman, both elegant and dignified. She was also pious, which I appreciated greatly, and interested in books and literature.

I passed my days in conversation with Lady Margaret, with whom I spoke Latin, or with my ladies as we sat with our needlework in our laps. My mother had insisted that my sisters and I learn to sew a fine seam. She had always stitched my father's shirts, and it seemed fitting that I would do the same for my husband. I had my fools to amuse me, and through the long, dark evenings the minstrels played for us. When the Welshmen came, as they often did, we listened to the music of their poetry.

We served frequent banquets, which often left my stomach unwell for days. I found English food nearly unpalatable and longed for the luscious fruits—the rosy pomegranates and juicy oranges and plump figs—fresh from the trees of my homeland. And I thought the English banquets curious in the way the dozens of dishes, carried in by servitors, were always presented in a particular order. Crane arrived first, followed by heron; rabbit was always served after pigeon, not before. No one could explain why this was the case.

"A matter of tradition, my lady princess," Lady Margaret informed me when I asked.

It was not my place to interfere with tradition, but I did let it be known that I hoped the dreadful cockentrice would not appear at any future banquets.

 

Slowly, Arthur and I learned to know each other. I taught him card games that I once played with my brother and sisters. Arthur began to teach me to play chess. I enjoyed the time we spent together, and my fondness for Arthur grew. Late in January I wrote to my sister, Juana, with whom I had always felt close:
On days when the sun surprises us with a rare appearance, we wrap ourselves in furs and ride our mounts along the banks of the River Teme and the River Corve. Someday I hope that you and Philip might visit us here.

Every evening after prayers when it was time to retire, Arthur kissed my hand. "Sleep well, dear wife," he said. "May angels watch over you until the morrow." Then he kissed my hand again, and we retired to our separate chambers.

There were occasional nights, though, when I was startled awake by a page, announcing in a loud voice that the prince wished to visit my bedchamber. The page then dismissed the protesting Doña Elvira "by order of His Majesty, the prince of Wales."

I leaped out of my bed and knelt upon the frigid stone floor, shivering in my silken shift, until Arthur arrived, took me by my cold hand, and led me into the bed. There we lay side by side, our hands touching, and Arthur told me of a troubling dream from which he had awakened, frightened and unable to fall asleep again.

"Dear Catherine, can you tell me the meaning of this dream?" he would ask.

I listened quietly. I was not an interpreter of dreams, but I asked him a few questions and tried to reassure him that the dream did not seem to me to pose any threat. Sometimes, thus comforted, he would drift into a peaceful sleep while I lay motionless in order not to disturb him—and thus sleepless myself. The affection I felt for Arthur deepened, like a sister's love for a beloved brother, like the love I had had for Juan.

I remained a virgin.

Eltham Palace, February 1502

 

The duke of York, weighted down by helmet and breastplate and cuisses strapped to his thighs, ran heavily toward the galloping horse, its gray mane streaming. When the gelding came within reach, Henry seized a handful of the mane and lunged, attempting to leap into the saddle without the use of stirrups. But the horse veered sharply away, tearing the long, rough hairs from Henry's grasp. Thrown off balance, the boy staggered and collapsed onto the frozen ground in a clattering heap of metal. He heard Brandon's laughter—Brandon, who could vault onto the back of a galloping horse from any angle!