Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (54 page)

The Moor, Yusuf, is away from London but the people at his lodging house say that he has reserved his rooms to return within the week. I shall have to be patient. I shall wait in my confinement and try to be patient.

They know him well, Maria’s servant tells her. His comings and goings are something of an event in their street. Africans are so rare in England as to be a spectacle – and he is a handsome man and generous with small coins for little services. They told Maria’s servant that he insisted on having fresh water for washing in his room and he washes every day, several times a day, and that – wonder of wonders
–
he bathes three or four times a week, using soap and towels, and throwing water all over the floor to the great inconvenience of the housemaids, and to great danger of his health.

I cannot help but laugh at the thought of the tall, fastidious Moor
folding himself up into a washing tub, desperate for a steam, a tepid soak, a massage, a cold shower, and then a long, thoughtful rest while smoking a hookah and sipping a strong, sweet peppermint tea. It reminds me of my horror when I first came to England and discovered that they bathe only infrequently, and wash only the tips of their fingers before eating. I think that he has done better than me – he has carried his love of his home with him, he has re-made his home wherever he goes. But in my determination to be Queen Katherine of England I have given up being Catalina of Spain.

They brought the Moor to Katherine under cover of darkness, to the chamber where she was confined. She sent the women from the room at the appointed hour and told them that she wanted to be alone. She sat in her chair by the window, where the tapestries were drawn back for air, and the first thing he saw, as she rose when he came in, was her slim candlelit profile against the darkness of the window. She saw his little grimace of sympathy.

‘No child.’

‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I shall come out of my confinement tomorrow.’

‘You are in pain?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, I am glad of that. You are bleeding?’

‘I had my normal course last week.’

He nodded. ‘Then you may have had a disease which has passed,’ he said. ‘You may be fit to conceive a child. There is no need to despair.’

‘I do not despair,’ she said flatly. ‘I never despair. That is why I have sent for you.’

‘You will want to conceive a child as soon as possible,’ he guessed.

‘Yes.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Well, Infanta, since you have had one
child, even if you did not bear it to full term, we know that you and your husband are fertile. That is good.’

‘Yes,’ she said, surprised by the thought. She had been so distressed by the miscarriage she had not thought that her fertility had been proven. ‘But why do you speak of my husband’s fertility?’

The Moor smiled. ‘It takes both a man and a woman to conceive a child.’

‘Here in England they think that it is only the woman.’

‘Yes. But in this, as in so many other things, they are wrong. There are two parts to every baby: the man’s breath of life and the woman’s gift of the flesh.’

‘They say that if a baby is lost, then the woman is at fault, perhaps she has committed a great sin.’

He frowned. ‘It is possible,’ he conceded. ‘But not very likely. Otherwise how would murderesses ever give birth? Why would innocent animals miscarry their young? I think we will learn in time that there are humours and infections which cause miscarriage. I do not blame the woman, it makes no sense to me.’

‘They say that if a woman is barren it is because the marriage is not blessed by God.’

‘He is your God,’ he remarked reasonably. ‘Would he persecute an unhappy woman in order to make a point?’

Katherine did not reply. ‘They will blame me if I do not have a live child,’ she observed very quietly.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But the truth of the matter is: having had one child and lost it, there is every reason to think that you might have another. And there should be no reason why you should not conceive again.’

‘I must bear the next child to full term.’

‘If I could examine you, I might know more.’

She shook her head. ‘It is not possible.’

His glance at her was merry. ‘Oh, you savages,’ he said softly.

She gave a little gasp of amused shock. ‘You forget yourself!’

‘Then send me away.’

That stopped her. ‘You can stay,’ she said. ‘But of course, you cannot examine me.’

‘Then let us consider what might help you conceive and carry a child,’ he said. ‘Your body needs to be strong. Do you ride horses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ride astride before you conceive and then take a litter thereafter. Walk every day, swim if you can. You will conceive a child about two weeks after the end of your course. Rest at those times, and make sure that you lie with your husband at those times. Try to eat moderately at every meal and drink as little of their accursed small ale as you can.’

Katherine smiled at the reflection of her own prejudices. ‘Do you know Spain?’

‘I was born there. My parents fled from Malaga when your mother brought in the Inquisition and they realised that they would be tormented to death.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said awkwardly.

‘We will go back, it is written,’ he said with nonchalant confidence.

‘I should warn you that you will not.’

‘I know that we will. I have seen the prophecy myself.’

At once they fell silent again.

‘Shall I tell you what I advise? Or shall I just leave now?’ he asked, as if he did not much mind which it was to be.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘And then I can pay you, and you can go. We were born to be enemies. I should not have summoned you.’

‘We are both Spanish, we both love our country. We both serve our God. Perhaps we were born to be friends.’

She had to stop herself giving him her hand. ‘Perhaps,’ she said gruffly, turning her head away. ‘But I was brought up to hate your people and hate your faith.’

‘I was brought up to hate no-one,’ he said gently. ‘Perhaps that is what I should be teaching you before anything else.’

‘Just teach me how to have a son,’ she repeated.

‘Very well. Drink water that has been boiled, eat as much fruit and fresh vegetables as you can get. Do you have salad vegetables here?’

For a moment I am back in the garden at Ludlow with his bright eyes on me.

‘Acetaria?’

‘Yes, salad.’

‘What is it, exactly?’

He saw the queen’s face glow.

‘What are you thinking of?’

‘Of my first husband. He told me that I could send for gardeners to grow salad vegetables, but I never did.’

‘I have seeds,’ the Moor said surprisingly. ‘I can give you some seeds and you can grow the vegetables you will need.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes.’

‘You would give me…you would sell them to me?’

‘Yes. I would give them to you.’

For a moment she was silenced by his generosity. ‘You are very kind,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘We are both Spanish and a long way from our homes. Doesn’t that matter more than the fact that I am black and you are white? That I worship my God facing Mecca and you worship yours facing west?’

‘I am a child of the true religion and you are an infidel,’ she said, but with less conviction than she had ever felt before.

‘We are both people of faith,’ he said quietly. ‘Our enemies should be the people who have no faith, neither in their God, nor in others, nor in themselves. The people who should face our crusade should be those who bring cruelty into the world for no reason but their own power. There is enough sin and wickedness to fight, without taking up arms against people who believe in a forgiving God and who try to lead a good life.’

Katherine found that she could not reply. On the one hand was her mother’s teaching, on the other was the simple goodness that radiated from this man. ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally, and it was as if the very words set her free. ‘I don’t know. I would have to take the question to God. I would have to pray for guidance. I don’t pretend to know.’

‘Now, that is the very beginning of wisdom,’ he said gently. ‘I am sure of that, at least. Knowing that you do not know is to ask humbly, instead of tell arrogantly. That is the beginning of wisdom. Now, more importantly, I will go home and write you a list of things that you must not eat, and I will send you some medicine to strengthen your humours. Don’t let them cup you, don’t let them put leeches on you, and don’t let them persuade you to take any poisons or potions. You are a young woman with a young husband. A baby will come.’

It was like a blessing. ‘You are sure?’ she said.

‘I am sure,’ he replied. ‘And very soon.’

I send for Henry, he should hear it first from me. He comes unwillingly. He has been filled with a terror of women’s secrets and women’s doings and he does not like to come into a room which has been prepared for a confinement. Also, there is something else: a lack of warmth, I
see it in his face, turned away from me. The way he does not meet my eyes. But I cannot challenge him about coolness towards me when I first have to tell him such hard news. Lady Margaret leaves us alone, closing the door behind her. I know she will ensure no-one outside eavesdrops. They will all know soon enough.

‘Husband, I am sorry, I have sad news for us,’ I say.

The face he turns to me is sulky. ‘I knew it could not be good when Lady Margaret came for me.’

There is no point in my feeling a flash of irritation. I shall have to manage us both. ‘I am not with child,’ I say, plunging in. ‘The doctor must have made a mistake. There was only one child and I lost it. This confinement has been a mistake. I shall return to court tomorrow.’

‘How can he have mistaken such a thing?’

I give a little shrug of the shoulders. I want to say: because he is a pompous fool and your man, and you surround yourself with people who only ever tell you the good news and are afraid to tell you bad. But instead I say neutrally: ‘He must have been mistaken.’

‘I shall look a fool!’ he bursts out. ‘You have been away for nearly three months and nothing to show for it.’