Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (28 page)

‘Drink this,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘The physician left it for you. It is a sleeping draught. I will wake you at noon.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

‘Princess, drink.’

Catalina drank it down, ignoring the bitter taste. More than anything else she wanted to be asleep and never wake again.

That night I dreamed I was on the top of the great gateway of the red fort that guards and encircles the Alhambra palace. Above my head
the standards of Castile and Aragon were flapping like the sails on Cristóbal Colón’s ships. Shading my eyes from the autumn sun, looking out over the great plain of Granada, I saw the simple, familiar beauty of the land, the tawny soil intersected by a thousand little ditches carrying water from one field to another. Below me was the white-walled town of Granada, even now, ten years on from our conquest, still, unmistakably a Moorish town: the houses all arranged around shady courtyards, a fountain splashing seductively in the centre, the gardens rich with the perfume of late flowering roses, and the boughs of the trees heavy with fruit.

Someone was calling for me: ‘Where is the Infanta?’

And in my dream I answered: ‘I am Katherine, Queen of England. That is my name now.’

They buried Arthur, Prince of Wales, on St George’s Day, this first prince of all England, after a nightmare journey from Ludlow to Worcester when the rain lashed down so hard that they could barely make way. The lanes were awash, the water meadows knee-high in flood water and the Teme had burst its banks and they could not get through the fords. They had to use bullock carts for the funeral procession, horses could not have made their way through the mire on the lanes, and all the plumage and black cloth was sodden by the time they finally straggled into Worcester.

Hundreds turned out to see the miserable cortege go through the streets to the cathedral. Hundreds wept for the loss of the rose of England. After they lowered his coffin into the vault beneath the choir, the servants of his household broke their staves of office and threw them into the grave with their lost master. It was over for them. Everything they had hoped for, in the service of such a young and promising prince was finished. It was over for Arthur. It felt as if everything was over and could never be set right again.

No, no, no.

For the first month of mourning Catalina stayed in her rooms. Lady Margaret and Dona Elvira gave out that she was ill, but not in danger. In truth they feared for her reason. She did not rave or cry, she did not rail against fate or weep for her mother’s comfort, she lay in utter silence, her face turned towards the wall. Her family tendency to despair tempted her like a sin. She knew she must not give way to weeping and madness, for if she once let go she would never be able to stop. For the long month of seclusion Catalina gritted her teeth and it took all her willpower and all her strength to stop herself from screaming out in grief.

When they woke her in the morning she said she was tired. They did not know that she hardly dared to move for fear that she would moan aloud. After they had dressed her, she would sit on her chair like a stone. As soon as they allowed it, she would go back to bed, lie on her back, and look up at the brightly coloured tester that she had seen with eyes half-closed by love, and know that Arthur would never pull her into the crook of his arm again.

They summoned the physician, Dr Bereworth, but when she saw him her mouth trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head away from him and she went swiftly into her bedchamber and closed the door on them all. She could not bear to see him, the doctor who had let Arthur die, the friends who had watched it happen. She could not bear to speak to him. She felt a murderous rage at the sight of the doctor who had failed to save the boy. She wished him dead, and not Arthur.

‘I am afraid her mind is affected,’ Lady Margaret said to the doctor
as they heard the latch click on the privy chamber door. ‘She does not speak, she does not even weep for him.’

‘Will she eat?’

‘If food is put before her and if she is reminded to eat.’

‘Get someone, someone familiar – her confessor perhaps – to read to her. Encouraging words.’

‘She will see no-one.’

‘Might she be with child?’ he whispered. It was the only question that now mattered.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘She has said nothing.’

‘She is mourning him,’ he said. ‘She is mourning like a young woman, for the young husband she has lost. We should let her be. Let her grieve. She will have to rise up soon enough. Is she to go back to court?’

‘The king commands it,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘The queen is sending her own litter.’

‘Well, when it comes she will have to change her ways then,’ he said comfortably. ‘She is only young. She will recover. The young have strong hearts. And it will help her to leave here, where she has such sad memories. If you need any advice please call me. But I will not force myself into her presence, poor child.’

No, no, no.

But Catalina did not look like a poor child, Lady Margaret thought. She looked like a statue, like a stone princess carved from grief. Dona Elvira had dressed her in her new dark clothes of mourning, and persuaded her to sit in the window where she could see the green trees and the hedges creamy with may blossom, the sun on
the fields, and hear the singing of the birds. The summer had come as Arthur had promised her that it would, it was warm as he had sworn it would be; but she was not walking by the river with him, greeting the swifts as they flew in from Spain. She was not planting salad vegetables in the gardens of the castle and persuading him to try them. The summer was here, the sun was here, Catalina was here, but Arthur was cold in the dark vault of Worcester Cathedral.

Catalina sat still, her hands folded on the black silk of her gown, her eyes looking out of the window, but seeing nothing, her mouth folded tight over her gritted teeth as if she were biting back a storm of words.

‘Princess,’ Lady Margaret started tentatively.

Slowly, the head under the heavy black hood turned towards her. ‘Yes, Lady Margaret?’ Her voice was hoarse.

‘I would speak with you.’

Catalina inclined her head.

Dona Elvira stepped back and went quietly out of the room.

‘I have to ask you about your journey to London. The royal litter has arrived and you will have to leave here.’

There was no flicker of animation in Catalina’s deep blue eyes. She nodded again, as if they were discussing the transport of a parcel.

‘I don’t know if you are strong enough to travel.’

‘Can I not stay here?’ Catalina asked.

‘I understand the king has sent for you. I am sorry for it. They write that you may stay here until you are well enough to travel.’

‘Why, what is to become of me?’ Catalina asked, as if it was a matter of absolute indifference. ‘When I get to London?’

‘I don’t know.’ The former princess did not pretend for one moment that a girl of a royal family could choose her future. ‘I am sorry. I do not know what is planned. My husband has been told nothing except to prepare for your journey to London.’

‘What do you think might happen? When my sister’s husband
died, they sent her back to us from Portugal. She came home to Spain again.’

‘I would expect that they will send you home,’ Lady Margaret said.

Catalina turned her head away once more. She looked out of the window but her eyes saw nothing. Lady Margaret waited, she wondered if the princess would say anything more.

‘Does a Princess of Wales have a house in London as well as here?’ she asked. ‘Shall I go back to Baynard’s Castle?’

‘You are not the Princess of Wales,’ Lady Margaret started. She was going to explain but the look that Catalina turned on her was so darkly angry that she hesitated. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps you did not understand…’

‘Understand what?’ Catalina’s white face was slowly flushing pink with temper.

‘Princess?’

‘Princess of what?’ Catalina snapped.

Lady Margaret dropped into a curtsey, and stayed low.

‘Princess of what?’ Catalina shouted loudly, and the door opened behind them and Dona Elvira came quickly into the room and then checked as she saw Catalina on her feet, her cheeks burning with temper, and Lady Margaret on her knees. She went out again without a word.