The Constant Princess

by Philippa Gregory

  I like being queen. I like having pretty things and rich jewels and a lapdog, and assembling ladies-in-waiting whose company is a pleasure. I like paying María de Salinas the long debt of her wages and watching her order a dozen gowns and fall in love. I like writing to Lady Margaret Pole and summoning her to my court, falling into her arms and crying for joy to see her again, and having her promise that she will be with me. I like knowing that her discretion is absolute; she never says one word about Arthur. But I like it that she knows what this marriage has cost me and why I have done it. I like her watching me make Arthur’s England even though it is Harry on the throne.

  The first month of marriage is nothing for Harry but a round of parties, feasts, hunts, outings, pleasure trips, boating trips, plays, and tournaments. Harry is like a boy who has been locked up in a schoolroom for too long and is suddenly given a summer holiday. The world is so filled with amusement for him that the least experience gives him great pleasure. He loves to hunt—and he had never been allowed fast horses before. He loves to joust and his father and grandmother had never even allowed him in the lists. He loves the company of men of the world who carefully adapt their conversation and their amusements to divert him. He loves the company of women but—thank God—his childlike devotion to me holds him firm. He likes to talk to pretty women, play cards with them, watch them dance and reward them with great prizes for petty feats—but always he glances towards me to see that I approve. Always he stays at my side, looking down at me from his greater height with a gaze of such devotion that I can’t help but be loving towards him for what he brings me and in a very little while, I can’t help but love him for himself.

  He has surrounded himself with a court of young men and women who are such a contrast to his father’s court that they demonstrate by their very being that everything has changed. His father’s court was filled with old men, men who had been through hard times together, some of them battle-hardened; all of them had lost and regained their lands at least once. Harry’s court is filled with men who have never known hardship, never been tested.

  I have made a point of saying nothing to criticize either him or the group of wild young men that gather around him. They call themselves the “Minions” and they encourage each other in mad bets and jests all the day and—according to gossip—half the night too. Harry was kept so quiet and so close for all his childhood that I think it natural he should long to run wild now, and that he should love the young men who boast of drinking bouts and fights, and chases and attacks, and girls who they seduce, and fathers who pursue them with cudgels. His best friend is William Compton, the two go about with their arms around each other’s shoulders as if ready to dance or braced for a fight for half the day. There is no harm in William, he is as great a fool as the rest of the court, he loves Harry as a comrade, and he has a mock-adoration of me that makes us all laugh. Half of the Minions pretend to be in love with me and I let them dedicate verses and sing songs to me and I make sure that Harry always knows that his songs and poems are the best.

  The older members of the court disapprove and have made stern criticisms of the king’s boisterous lads, but I say nothing. When the councilors come to me with complaints I say that the king is a young man and youth will have its way. There is no great harm in any one of the comrades; when they are not drinking, they are sweet young men.

  One or two, like the Duke of Buckingham who greeted me long ago, or the young Thomas Howard, are fine young men who would be an ornament to any court. My mother would have liked them. But when the lads are deep in their cups they are noisy and rowdy and excitable as young men always are and when they are sober they talk nonsense. I look at them with my mother’s eyes and I know that they are the boys who will become the officers in our army. When we go to war their energy and their courage is just what we will need. The noisiest, most disruptive young men in peacetime are exactly the leaders I will need in time of war.

  Lady Margaret, the king’s grandmother, having buried a husband or two, a daughter-in-law, a grandson and finally her own precious prince, was a little weary of fighting for her place in the world and Catalina was careful not to provoke her old enemy into open warfare. Thanks to Catalina’s discretion, the rivalry between the two women was not played overtly—anyone hoping to see Lady Margaret abuse her granddaughter-in-law as she had insulted her son’s wife was disappointed. Catalina slid away from conflict.

  When Lady Margaret tried to claim precedence by arriving at the dining hall door a few footsteps before Catalina, a Princess of the Blood, an Infanta of Spain and now Queen of England, Catalina stepped back at once and gave way to her with such an air of generosity that everyone remarked on the pretty behavior of the new queen. Catalina had a way of ushering the older woman before her that absolutely denied all rules of precedence and instead somehow emphasized Lady Margaret’s ungainly gallop to beat her granddaughter-in-law to the high table. They also saw Catalina pointedly step back, and everyone remarked on the grace and generosity of the younger woman.

  The death of Lady Margaret’s son, King Henry, had hit the old lady hard. It was not so much that she had lost a beloved child; it was more that she had lost a cause. In his absence she could hardly summon the energy to force the Privy Councilors to report to her before going to the king’s rooms. Harry’s joyful excusing of his father’s debts and freeing of his father’s prisoners she took as an insult to his father’s memory and to her own rule. The sudden leap of the court into youth and freedom and playfulness made her feel old and bad-tempered. She, who had once been the commander of the court and the maker of the rules, was left to one side. Her opinion no longer mattered. The great book by which all court events must be governed had been written by her; but suddenly, they were celebrating events that were not in her book, they invented pastimes and activities, and she was not consulted.

  She blamed Catalina for all the changes she most disliked, and Catalina smiled very sweetly and continued to encourage the young king to hunt and to dance and to stay up late at night. The old lady grumbled to her ladies that the queen was a giddy, vain thing and would lead the prince to disaster. Insultingly, she even remarked that it was no wonder Arthur had died, if this was the way that the Spanish girl thought a royal household should be run.

  Lady Margaret Pole remonstrated with her old acquaintance as tactfully as she could. “My lady, the queen has a merry court but she never does anything against the dignity of the throne. Indeed, without her, the court would be far wilder. It is the king who insists on one pleasure after another. It is the queen who gives this court its manners. The young men adore her and nobody drinks or misbehaves before her.”

  “It is the queen whom I blame,” the old woman said crossly. “Princess Eleanor would never have behaved like this. Princess Eleanor would have been housed in my rooms, and the place would have run by my rules.”

  Tactfully, Catalina heard nothing, not even when people came to her and repeated the slanders. Catalina simply ignored her grandmother-inlaw and the constant stream of her criticism. She could have done nothing that would irritate her more.

  It was the late hours that the court now kept that were the old lady’s greatest complaint. Increasingly, she had to wait and wait for dinner to be served. She would complain that it was so late at night that the servants would not be finished before dawn, and then she would retire before the court had even finished their dinner.

  “You keep late hours,” she told Harry. “It is foolish. You need your sleep. You are only a boy; you should not be roistering all night. I cannot keep hours like this, and it is a waste of candles.”

  “Yes, but my lady grandmother, you are nearly seventy years old,” he said patiently. “Of course you should have your rest. You shall retire whenever you wish. Catalina and I are only young. It is natural for us to want to stay up late. We like amusement.”

  “She should be resting. She has to conceive an heir,” Lady Margaret said irritably. “She’s not going to do that bobbing
about in a dance with a bunch of featherheads. Masking every night. Whoever heard of such a thing? And who is to pay for all this?”

  “We’ve been married less than a month!” he exclaimed, a little irritated. “These are our wedding celebrations. I think we can enjoy good pastimes and keep a merry court. I like to dance.”

  “You act as if there was no end to money,” she snapped. “How much has this dinner cost you? And last night’s? The strewing herbs alone must cost a fortune. And the musicians? This is a country that has to hoard its wealth, it cannot afford a spendthrift king. It is not the English way to have a popinjay on the throne, a court of mummers.”

  Harry flushed. He was about to make a sharp retort.

  “The king is no spendthrift,” Catalina intervened quickly. “This is just part of the wedding festivities. Your son, the late king, always thought that there should be a merry court. He thought that people should know that the court was wealthy and gay. King Harry is only following in the footsteps of his wise father.”

  “His father was not a young fool under the thumb of his foreign wife!” the old lady said spitefully.

  Catalina’s eyes widened slightly and she put her hand on Harry’s sleeve to keep him silent. “I am his partner and his helpmeet, as God has bidden me,” she said gently. “As I am sure you would want me to be.”

  The old lady grunted. “I hear you claim to be more than that,” she began.

  The two young people waited. Catalina could feel Harry shift restlessly under the gentle pressure of her hand.

  “I hear that your father is to recall his ambassador. Am I right?” She glared at them both. “Presumably he does not need an ambassador now. The King of England’s own wife is in the pay and train of Spain. The King of England’s own wife is to be the Spanish ambassador. How can that be?”

  “My lady grandmother—” Harry burst out; but Catalina was sweetly calm.

  “I am a princess of Spain. Of course I would represent the country of my birth to my country by marriage. I am proud to be able to do such a thing. Of course I will tell my father that his beloved son, my husband, is well, that our kingdom is prosperous. Of course I will tell my husband that my loving father wants to support him in war and peace.”

  “When we go to war—” Harry began.

  “War?” the old lady demanded, her face darkening. “Why should we go to war? We have no quarrel with France. It is only her father who wants war with France, no one else. Tell me that not even you will be such a fool as to take us into war to fight for the Spanish! What are you now? Their errand boy? Their vassal?”

  “The King of France is a danger to us all!” Harry stormed. “And the glory of England has always been—”

  “I am sure My Lady the King’s Grandmother did not mean to disagree with you, sire,” Catalina said sweetly. “These are changing times. We cannot expect older people always to understand when things change so quickly.”

  “I’m not quite in my dotage yet!” the old woman flared. “And I know danger when I see it. And I know divided loyalties when I see them. And I know a Spanish spy—”

  “You are a most treasured advisor,” Catalina assured her. “And my lord the king and I are always glad of your advice. Aren’t we, Harry?”

  He was still angry. “Agincourt was—”

  “I’m tired,” the old woman said. “And you twist and twist things about. I’m going to my room.”

  Catalina swept her a deep, respectful curtsey, Harry ducked his head with scant politeness. When Catalina came up the old woman had gone.

  “How can she say such things?” Harry demanded. “How can you bear to listen to her when she says such things? She makes me want to roar like a baited bear! She understands nothing, and she insults you! And you just stand and listen!”

  Catalina laughed, took his cross face in her hands, and kissed him on the lips. “Oh, Harry, who cares what she thinks as long as she can do nothing? Nobody cares what she says now.”

  “I am going to war with France whatever she thinks,” he promised.

  “Of course you are, as soon as the time is right.”

  I hide my triumph over her, but I know the taste of it, and it is sweet. I think to myself that one day the other tormentors of my widowhood, the princesses, Harry’s sisters, will know my power too. But I can wait.

  Lady Margaret may be old but she cannot even gather the senior people of court about her. They have known her forever; the bonds of kinship, wardship, rivalry, and feud run through them all like veins through dirty marble. She was never well liked: not as a woman, not as the mother of a king. She was from one of the great families of the country but when she leapt up so high after Bosworth she flaunted her importance. She has a great reputation for learning and for holiness but she is not beloved. She always insisted on her position as the king’s mother and a gulf has grown between her and the other people of the court.

  Drifting away from her, they are becoming friends of mine: Lady Margaret Pole of course; the Duke of Buckingham and his sisters, Elizabeth and Anne; Thomas Howard; his sons; Sir Thomas and Lady Elizabeth Boleyn; dearest William Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury; George Talbot; Sir Henry Vernon that I knew from Wales. They all know that although Harry neglects the business of the realm, I do not.

  I consult them for their advice, I share with them the hopes that Arthur and I had. Together with the men of the Privy Council I am bringing the kingdom into one powerful, peaceful country. We are starting to consider how to make the law run from one coast to another, through the wastes, the mountains, and forests alike. We are starting to work on the defenses of the coast. We are making a survey of the ships that could be commanded into a fighting navy, we are creating muster rolls for an army. I have taken the reins of the kingdom into my hands and found that I know how it is done.

  Statecraft is my family business. I sat at my mother’s feet in the throne room of the Alhambra Palace. I listened to my father in the beautiful golden Hall of the Ambassadors. I learned the art and the craft of kingship as I had learned about beauty, music, and the art of building, all in the same place, all in the same lessons. I learned a taste for rich tiling, for bright sunlight falling on a delicate tracery of stucco, and for power, all at the same time. Becoming a Queen Regnant is like coming home. I am happy as Queen of England. I am where I was born and raised to be.

  The king’s grandmother lay in her ornate bed, rich curtains drawn close so that she was lulled by shadows. At the foot of the bed an uncomplaining lady-in-waiting held up the monstrance for her to see the body of Christ in its white purity through the diamond-cut piece of glass. The dying woman fixed her eyes on it, occasionally looking to the ivory crucifix on the wall beside the bed, ignoring the soft murmur of prayers around her.

  Catalina kneeled at the foot of the bed, her head bowed, a coral rosary in her hands, praying silently. My Lady Margaret, confident of a hard-won place in heaven, was sliding away from her place on earth.

  Outside, in her presence chamber, Harry waited for them to tell him that his grandmother was dead. The last link to his subordinate, junior childhood would be broken with her death. The years in which he had been the second son—trying a little harder for attention, smiling a little brighter, working at being clever—would all be gone. From now on, everyone he would meet would know him only as the most senior member of his family, the greatest of his line. There would be no articulate, critical old Tudor lady to watch over this gullible prince, to cut him down with one quiet word in the very moment of his springing up. When she was dead he could be a man, on his own terms. There would be no one left who knew him as a boy. Although he was waiting, outwardly pious, for news of her death, inside he was longing to hear that she was gone, that he was at last truly independent, at last a man and a king. He had no idea that he still desperately needed her counsel.

  “He must not go to war,” the king’s grandmother said hoarsely from the bed.

  The lady-in-waiting gave a little gasp at the sudden cla
rity of her mistress’s speech. Catalina rose to her feet. “What did you say, my lady?”

  “He must not go to war,” she repeated. “Our way is to keep out of the endless wars of Europe, to keep behind the seas, to keep safe and far away from all those princeling squabbles. Our way is keep the kingdom at peace.”

  “No,” Catalina said steadily. “Our way is to take the crusade into the heart of Christendom and beyond. Our way is to make England a leader in establishing the church throughout Europe, throughout the Holy Land, to Africa, to the Turks, to the Saracens, to the edge of the world.”

  “The Scots…”

  “I shall defeat the Scots,” Catalina said firmly. “I am well aware of the danger.”

  “I did not let him marry you for you to lead us to war.” The dark eyes flared with fading resentment.

  “You did not let him marry me at all. You opposed it from the first moment,” Catalina said bluntly. “And I married him precisely so that he should mount a great crusade.” She ignored the little whimper from the lady-in-waiting, who believed that a dying woman should not be contradicted.

  “You will promise me that you will not let him go to war,” the old lady breathed. “My dying promise, my deathbed promise. I lay it on you from my deathbed, as a sacred duty.”

  “No.” Catalina shook her head. “Not me. Not another. I made one deathbed promise and it has cost me dearly. I will not make another. Least of all to you. You have lived your life and made your world as you wished. Now it is my turn. I shall see my son as King of England and perhaps King of Spain. I shall see my husband lead a glorious crusade against the Moors and the Turks. I shall see my country, England, take its place in the world, where it should be. I shall see England at the heart of Europe, a leader of Europe. And I shall be the one that defends it and keeps it safe. I shall be the one that is Queen of England, as you never were.”