Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (29 page)

‘Princess of Spain,’ Lady Margaret said very quietly.

There was intense silence.

‘I am the Princess of Wales,’ Catalina said slowly. ‘I have been the Princess of Wales all my life.’

Lady Margaret rose up and faced her. ‘Now you are the Dowager Princess.’

Catalina clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a cry of pain.

‘I am sorry, Princess.’

Catalina shook her head, beyond words, her fist at her mouth
muffling her whimpers of pain. Lady Margaret’s face was grim. ‘They will call you Dowager Princess.’

‘I will never answer to it.’

‘It is a title of respect. It is only the English word for widow.’

Catalina gritted her teeth and turned away from her friend to look out of the window. ‘You can get up,’ she said through her teeth. ‘There is no need for you to kneel to me.’

The older woman rose to her feet and hesitated. ‘The queen writes to me. They want to know of your health. Not only if you feel well, and strong enough to travel; they really need to know if you might be with child.’

Catalina clenched her hands together, turned away her face so that Lady Margaret should not see her cold rage.

‘If you are with child and that child is a boy then he will be the Prince of Wales, and then King of England, and you would be My Lady the King’s Mother,’ Lady Margaret reminded her quietly.

‘And if I am not with child?’

‘Then you are the Dowager Princess, and Prince Harry is Prince of Wales.’

‘And when the king dies?’

‘Then Prince Harry becomes king.’

‘And I?’

Lady Margaret shrugged in silence. ‘Next to nothing’, said the gesture. Aloud she said, ‘You are the Infanta still.’ Lady Margaret tried to smile. ‘As you will always be.’

‘And the next Queen of England?’

‘Will be the wife of Prince Harry.’

The anger went out of Catalina, she walked to the fireplace, took hold of the high mantelpiece and steadied herself with it. The little fire burning in the grate threw out no heat that she could feel through the thick black skirt of her mourning gown. She stared at the flames as if she would understand what had happened to her.

‘I am become again what I was, when I was a child of three,’ she
said slowly. ‘The Infanta of Spain, not the Princess of Wales. A baby. Of no importance.’

Lady Margaret, whose own royal blood had been carefully diluted by a lowly marriage so that she could pose no threat to the Tudor throne of England, nodded. ‘Princess, you take the position of your husband. It is always thus for all women. If you have no husband and no son, then you have no position. You have only what you were born to.’

‘If I go home to Spain as a widow, and they marry me to an archduke, I will be Archduchess Catalina, and not a princess at all. Not Princess of Wales, and never Queen of England.’

Lady Margaret nodded. ‘Like me,’ she said.

Catalina turned her head. ‘You?’

‘I was a Plantagenet princess, King Edward’s niece, sister to Edward of Warwick, the heir to King Richard’s throne. If King Henry had lost the battle at Bosworth Field it would have been King Richard on the throne now, my brother as his heir and Prince of Wales, and I should be Princess Margaret, as I was born to be.’

‘Instead you are Lady Margaret, wife to the warden of a little castle, not even his own, on the edge of England.’

The older woman nodded her assent to the bleak description of her status.

‘Why did you not refuse?’ Catalina asked rudely.

Lady Margaret glanced behind her to see that the door to the presence chamber was shut and none of Catalina’s women could hear.

‘How could I refuse?’ she asked simply. ‘My brother was in the Tower of London, simply for being born a prince. If I had refused to marry Sir Richard, I should have joined him. My brother put his dear head down on the block for nothing more than bearing his name. As a girl, I had the chance to change my name. So I did.’

‘You had the chance to be Queen of England!’ Catalina protested.

Lady Margaret turned away from the younger woman’s energy.
‘It is as God wills,’ she said simply. ‘My chance, such as it was, has gone. Your chance has gone too. You will have to find a way to live the rest of your life without regrets, Infanta.’

Catalina said nothing, but the face that she showed to her friend was closed and cold. ‘I will find a way to fulfil my destiny,’ she said. ‘Ar –’ She broke off, she could not name him, even to her friend. ‘I once had a conversation about claiming one’s own,’ she said. ‘I understand it now. I shall have to be a pretender to myself. I shall insist on what is mine. I know what is my duty and what I have to do. I shall do as God wills, whatever the difficulties for me.’

The older woman nodded. ‘Perhaps God wills that you accept your fate. Perhaps it is God’s will that you be resigned,’ she suggested.

‘He does not,’ Catalina said firmly.

I will tell no-one what I promised. I will tell no-one that in my heart I am still Princess of Wales, I will always be Princess of Wales until I see the wedding of my son and see my daughter-in-law crowned. I will tell no-one that I understand now what Arthur told me: that even a princess born may have to claim her title.

I have told no-one whether or not I am with child. But I know, well enough. I had my course in April, there is no baby. There is no Princess Mary, there is no Prince Arthur. My love, my only love, is dead and there is nothing left of him for me, not even his unborn child.

I will say nothing, though people constantly pry and want to know. I have to consider what I am to do, and how I am to claim the throne that Arthur wanted for me. I have to think how to keep my promise to him, how to tell the lie that he wanted me to tell. How I can make it convincing, how I can fool the king himself, and his sharp-witted, hard-eyed mother.

But I have made a promise, I do not retract my word. He begged me for a promise and he dictated the lie I must tell, and I said ‘yes’. I
will not fail him. It is the last thing he asked of me, and I will do it. I will do it for him, and I will do it for our love.

Oh my love, if you knew how much I long to see you.

Catalina travelled to London with the black-trimmed curtains of the litter closed against the beauty of the countryside, as it came into full bloom. She did not see the people doff their caps or curtsey as the procession wound through the little English villages. She did not hear the men and women call ‘God bless you, Princess!’ as the litter jolted slowly down the village streets. She did not know that every young woman in the land crossed herself and prayed that she should not have the bad luck of the pretty Spanish princess who had come so far for love and then lost her man after only five months.

She was dully aware of the lush green of the countryside, of the fertile swelling of the crops in the fields and the fat cattle in the water-meadows. When their way wound through the thick forests, she noticed the coolness of the green shade, and the thick interleaving of the canopy of boughs over the road. Herds of deer vanished into the dappled shade and she could hear the calling of a cuckoo and the rattle of a woodpecker. It was a beautiful land, a wealthy land, a great inheritance for a young couple. She thought of Arthur’s desire to protect this land of his against the Scots, against the Moors. Of his will to reign here better and more justly than it had ever been done before.

She did not speak to her hosts on the road who attributed her silence to grief, and pitied her for it. She did not speak to her ladies, not even to Maria who was at her side in silent sympathy, nor to Dona Elvira who, at this crisis in Spanish affairs, was everywhere; her husband organising the houses on the road, she herself ordering the princess’s food, her bedding, her companions, her diet. Catalina said nothing and let them do as they wished with her.

Some of her hosts thought her sunk so deep in grief that she was beyond speech, and prayed that she should recover her wits again, and go back to Spain and make a new marriage that would bring her a new husband to replace the old. What they did not know was that Catalina was holding her grief for her husband in some hidden place deep inside her. Deliberately, she delayed her mourning until she had the safety to indulge in it. While she jolted along in the litter she was not weeping for him, she was racking her brains how to fulfil his dream. She was wondering how to obey him, as he had demanded. She was thinking how she should fulfil her deathbed promise to the only young man she had ever loved.

I shall have to be clever. I shall have to be more cunning than King Henry Tudor, more determined than his mother. Faced with those two, I don’t know that I can get away with it. But I have to get away with it. I have given my promise, I will tell my lie. England shall be ruled as Arthur wanted. The rose will live again, I shall make the England that he wanted.

I wish I could have brought Lady Margaret with me to advise me, I miss her friendship, I miss her hard-won wisdom. I wish I could see her steady gaze and hear her counsel to be resigned, to bow to my destiny, to give myself to God’s will. I would not follow her advice
–
but I wish I could hear it.

The princess and her party arrived at Croydon Palace and Dona Elvira led Catalina to her private rooms. For once, the girl did not go to her bedchamber and close the door behind her, she stood in the sumptuous presence chamber, looking around her. ‘A chamber fit for a princess,’ she said.

‘But it is not your own,’ Dona Elvira said, anxious for her charge’s status. ‘It has not been given to you. It is just for your use.’

The young woman nodded. ‘It is fitting,’ she said.

‘The Spanish ambassador is in attendance,’ Dona Elvira told her. ‘Shall I tell him that you will not see him?’

‘I will see him,’ Catalina said quietly. ‘Tell him to come in.’

‘You don’t have to…’

‘He may have word from my mother,’ she said. ‘I should like her advice.’

The duenna bowed and went to find the ambassador. He was deep in conversation in the gallery outside the presence chamber with Father Alessandro Geraldini, the princess’s chaplain. Dona
Elvira regarded them both with dislike. The chaplain was a tall, handsome man, his dark good looks in stark contrast to those of his companion. The ambassador, Dr de Puebla, was tiny beside him, leaning against a chair to support his misshaped spine, his damaged leg tucked behind the other, his bright little face alight with excitement.

‘She could be with child?’ the ambassador confirmed in a whisper. ‘You are certain?’

‘Pray God it is so. She is certainly in hopes of it,’ the confessor confirmed.

‘Dr de Puebla!’ the duenna snapped, disliking the confidential air between the two men. ‘I shall take you to the princess now.’

De Puebla turned and smiled at the irritable woman. ‘Certainly, Dona Elvira,’ he said equably. ‘At once.’

Dr de Puebla limped into the room, his richly trimmed black hat already in his hand, his small face wreathed in an unconvincing smile. He bowed low with a flourish, and came up to inspect the princess.

At once he was struck by how much she had changed in such a short time. She had come to England a girl, with a girl’s optimism. He had thought her a spoilt child, one who had been protected from the harshness of the real world. In the fairy-tale palace of the Alhambra this had been the petted youngest daughter of the most powerful monarchs in Christendom. Her journey to England had been the first real discomfort she had been forced to endure, and she had complained about it bitterly, as if he could help the weather. On her wedding day, standing beside Arthur and hearing the cheers for him, had been the first time she had taken second place to anyone but her heroic parents.

But before him now was a girl who had been hammered by unhap-piness into a fine maturity. This Catalina was thinner, and paler, but with a new spiritual beauty, honed by hardship. He drew his breath. This Catalina was a young woman with a queenly presence. She had
become through grief not only Arthur’s widow, but her mother’s daughter. This was a princess from the line that had defeated the most powerful enemy of Christendom. This was the very bone of the bone and blood of the blood of Isabella of Castile. She was cool, she was hard. He hoped very much that she was not going to be difficult.

De Puebla gave her a smile that he meant to be reassuring and saw her scrutinise him with no answering warmth in her face. She gave him her hand and then she sat in a straight-backed wooden chair before the fire. ‘You may sit,’ she said graciously, gesturing him to a lower chair, further away.

He bowed again, and sat.

‘Do you have any messages for me?’

‘Of sympathy, from the king and Queen Elizabeth and from My Lady the King’s Mother, and from myself of course. They will invite you to court when you have recovered from your journey and are out of mourning.’

‘How long am I to be in mourning?’ Catalina inquired.

‘My Lady the King’s Mother has said that you should be in seclusion for a month after the burial. But since you were not at court during that time, she has ruled that you will stay here until she commands you to return to London. She is concerned for your health…’

He paused, hoping that she would volunteer whether or not she was with child, but she let the silence stretch.

He thought he would ask her directly. ‘Infanta…’

‘You should call me princess,’ she interrupted. ‘I am the Princess of Wales.’

He hesitated, thrown off course. ‘Dowager Princess,’ he corrected her quietly.

Catalina nodded. ‘Of course. It is understood. Do you have any letters from Spain?’

He bowed and gave her the letter he was carrying in the hidden
pocket in his sleeve. She did not snatch it from him like a child and open it, then and there. She nodded her head in thanks and held it.

‘Do you not want to open it now? Do you not want to reply?’

‘When I have written my reply, I will send for you,’ she said simply, asserting her power over him. ‘I shall send for you when I want you.’

‘Certainly, Your Grace.’ He smoothed the velvet nap of his black breeches to hide his irritation but inwardly he thought it an impertinence that the Infanta, now a widow, should command where before the Princess of Wales had politely requested. He thought he perhaps did not like this new, finer Catalina, after all.

‘And have you heard from Their Majesties in Spain?’ she asked. ‘Have they advised you as to their wishes?’

‘Yes,’ he said, wondering how much he should tell her. ‘Of course, Queen Isabella is anxious that you are not unwell. She asked me to inquire after your health and to report to her.’

A secretive shadow crossed Catalina’s face. ‘I shall write to the queen my mother and tell her my news,’ she said.

‘She was anxious to know…’ he began, probing for the answer to the greatest question: was there an heir? Was the princess with child?

‘I shall confide in no-one but my mother.’

‘We cannot proceed to the settlement of your jointure and your arrangements until we know,’ he said bluntly. ‘It makes a difference to everything.’

She did not flare up as he had thought she would do. She inclined her head, she had herself under tight control. ‘I shall write to my mother,’ she repeated, as if his advice did not much matter.

He saw he would get nothing more from her. But at least the chaplain had told him she could be with child, and he should know. The king would be glad to know that there was at least a possibility of an heir. At any rate she had not denied it. There might be capital to make from her silence. ‘Then I will leave you to read your letter.’ He bowed.

She made a casual gesture of dismissal and turned to look at the flames of the little summertime fire. He bowed again and, since she was not looking at him, scrutinised her figure. She had no bloom of early pregnancy but some women took it badly in the first months. Her pallor could be caused by morning sickness. It was impossible for a man to tell. He would have to rely on the confessor’s opinion, and pass it on with a caution.

I open my mother’s letter with hands that are trembling so much that I can hardly break the seals. The first thing I see is the shortness of the letter, only one page.

‘Oh, Madre,’ I breathe. ‘No more?’

Perhaps she was in haste; but I am bitterly hurt to see that she has written so briefly! If she knew how much I want to hear her voice she would have written at twice the length. As God is my witness I don’t think I can do this without her; I am only sixteen and a half, I need my mother.

I read the short letter through once, and then, almost incredulously, I read it through again.

It is not a letter from a loving mother to her daughter. It is not a letter from a woman to her favourite child, and that child on the very edge of despair. Coldly, powerfully, she has written a letter from a queen to a princess. She writes of nothing but business. We could be a pair of merchants concluding a sale.

She says that I am to stay in whatever house is provided for me until I have had my next course and I know that I am not with child. If that is the case I am to command Dr de Puebla to demand my jointure as Dowager Princess of Wales and as soon as I have the full money and not before (underlined so there can be no mistake), I am to take ship for Spain.

If, on the other hand, God is gracious, and I am with child, then I
am to assure Dr de Puebla that the money for my dowry will be paid in cash and at once, he is to secure me my allowance as Dowager Princess of Wales, and I am to rest and hope for a boy.

I am to write to her at once and tell her if I think I am with child. I am to write to her as soon as I am certain, one way or the other, and I am to confide also in Dr de Puebla and to maintain myself under the chaperonage of Dona Elvira.

I fold the letter carefully, matching the edges one to another as if tidiness matters very much. I think that if she knew of the despair that laps at the edges of my mind like a river of darkness she would have written to me more kindly. If she knew how very alone I am, how grieved I am, how much I miss him, she would not write to me of settlements and jointures and titles. If she knew how much I loved him and how I cannot bear to live without him she would write and tell me that she loves me, that I am to go home to her at once, without delay.

I tuck the letter into the pocket at my waist, and I stand up, as if reporting for duty. I am not a child any more. I will not cry for my mother. I see that I am not in the especial care of God since he could let Arthur die. I see that I am not in the especial love of my mother, since she can leave me alone, in a strange land.

She is not only a mother, she is Queen of Spain, and she has to ensure that she has a grandson, or failing a grandson, a watertight treaty. I am not just a young woman who has lost the man she loves. I am a Princess of Spain and I have to produce a grandson, or failing that a watertight treaty. And in addition, I am now bound by a promise. I have promised that I will be Princess of Wales again, and Queen of England. I have promised this to the young man to whom I promised everything. I will perform it for him, whatever anyone else wants.

The Spanish ambassador did not report at once to Their Majesties of Spain. Instead, playing his usual double game, he took the chaplain’s opinion first to the King of England.

‘Her confessor says that she is with child,’ he remarked.

For the first time in days King Henry felt his heart lighten. ‘Good God, if that were so, it would change everything.’

‘Please God it is so. I should be glad of it,’ de Puebla agreed. ‘But I cannot guarantee it. She shows no sign of it.’

‘Could be early days,’ Henry agreed. ‘And God knows, and I know, a child in the cradle is not a prince on the throne. It’s a long road to the crown. But it would be a great comfort to me if she was with child – and to the queen,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘So she must stay here in England until we know for sure,’ the ambassador concluded. ‘And if she is not with child we shall settle our accounts, you and I, and she shall go home. Her mother asks for her to be sent home at once.’

‘We’ll wait and see,’ Henry said, conceding nothing. ‘Her mother will have to wait like the rest of us. And if she is anxious to have her daughter home she had better pay the rest of the dowry.’

‘You would not delay the return of the princess to her mother over a matter of money,’ the ambassador suggested.

‘The sooner everything is settled the better,’ the king said smoothly. ‘If she is with child then she is our daughter and the mother of our heir; nothing would be too good for her. If she is not, then she can go home to her mother as soon as her dowry is paid.’

I know that there is no Mary growing in my womb, there is no Arthur; but I shall say nothing until I know what to do. I dare say nothing until I am sure what I should do. My mother and father will be planning for the good of Spain, King Henry will be planning for the good
of England. Alone, I will have to find a way to fulfil my promise. Nobody will help me. Nobody can even know what I am doing. Only Arthur in heaven will understand what I am doing and I feel far, far away from him. It is so painful, a pain I could not imagine. I have never needed him more than now, now that he is dead, and only he can advise me how to fulfil my promise to him.