The Constant Princess

by Philippa Gregory

  “No…” the old woman breathed.

  “Yes,” Catalina swore, without compromise. “I am Queen of England now and I will be till my death.”

  The old woman raised herself up, struggled for breath. “You pray for me.” She laid the order on the younger woman almost as if it were a curse. “I have done my duty to England, to the Tudor line. You see that my name is remembered as if I were a queen.”

  Catalina hesitated. If this woman had not served herself, her son and her country, the Tudors would not be on the throne. “I will pray for you,” she conceded grudgingly. “And as long as there is a chantry in England, as long as the Holy Roman Catholic Church is in England, your name will be remembered.”

  “Forever,” the old woman said, happy in her belief that some things could never change.

  “Forever,” Catalina agreed.

  Then, less than an hour later, she was dead; and I became queen, ruling queen, undeniably in command, without a rival, even before my coronation. No one knows what to do in the court, there is no one who can give a coherent order. Harry has never ordered a royal funeral—how should he know where to begin, how to judge the extent of the honor that should be given to his grandmother? How many mourners? How long the time of mourning? Where should she be buried? How should the whole ceremonial be done?

  I summon my oldest friend in England, the Duke of Buckingham, who greeted me on my arrival all those years ago and is now lord high steward, and I ask for Lady Margaret Pole to come to me. My ladies bring me the great volume of ceremonial, the Royal Book, written by the king’s dead grandmother herself, and I set about organizing my first public English event.

  I am lucky; tucked inside the cover of the book I find three pages of handwritten instructions. The vain old lady had laid out the order of the procession that she wanted for her funeral. Lady Margaret and I gasp at the numbers of bishops she would like to serve, the pallbearers, the mutes, the mourners, the decorations on the streets, the duration of the mourning. I show them to the Duke of Buckingham, her onetime ward, who says nothing but in discreet silence just smiles and shakes his head. Hiding my unworthy sense of triumph I take a quill, dip it in black ink, cut almost everything by a half, and then start to give orders.

  It was a quiet ceremony of smooth dignity, and everyone knew that it had been commanded and ordered by the Spanish bride. Those who had not known before realized now that the girl who had been waiting for seven years to come to the throne of England had not wasted her time. She knew the temperament of the English people, she knew how to put on a show for them. She knew the tenor of the court: what they regarded as stylish, what they saw as mean. And she knew, as a princess born, how to rule. In those days before her coronation, Catalina established herself as the undeniable queen, and those who had ignored her in her years of poverty now discovered in themselves tremendous affection and respect for the princess.

  She accepted their admiration, just as she had accepted their neglect: with calm politeness. She knew that by ordering the funeral of the king’s grandmother she established herself as the first woman of the new court, and the arbiter of all decisions of court life. She had, in one brilliant performance, established herself as the foremost leader of England. And she was certain that after this triumph no one would ever be able to supplant her.

  We decide not to cancel our coronation, though My Lady the King’s Grandmother’s funeral preceded it. The arrangements are all in place, we judge that we should do nothing to mar the joy of the City or of the people who have come from all over England to see the boy Harry take his father’s crown. They say that some have traveled all the way from Plymouth, who saw me come ashore, a frightened seasick girl, all those years ago. We are not going to tell them that the great celebration of Harry’s coming to the throne, of my coronation, is canceled because a cross old lady has died at an ill-judged time. We agree that the people are expecting a great celebration and we should not deny them.

  In truth, it is Harry who cannot bear a disappointment. He had promised himself a great moment of glory and he would not miss it for the world. Certainly not for the death of a very old lady who spent the last years of her life preventing him from having his own way in anything.

  I agree with him. I judge that the king’s grandmother seized her power and enjoyed her time, and now it is time for us. I judge that it is the mood of the country and the mood of the court to celebrate the triumph of Harry’s coming to the throne with me at his side. Indeed, for some of them, who have long taken an interest in me, there is the greatest delight that I shall have the crown at last. I decide—and there is no one but me to decide—that we will go ahead. And so we do.

  I know that Harry’s grief for his grandmother is only superficial; his mourning is mostly show. I saw him when I came from her privy chamber, and he knew, since I had left her bedside, that she must be dead. I saw his shoulders stretch out and lift, as if he were suddenly free from the burden of her care, as if her skinny, loving, age-spotted hand had been a dead weight on his neck. I saw his quick smile—his delight that he was alive and young and lusty, and that she was gone. Then I saw the careful composing of his face into conventional sadness and I stepped forwards, with my face grave also, and told him that she was dead, in a low sad voice, and he answered me in the same tone.

  I am glad to know that he can play the hypocrite. The court room in the Alhambra Palace has many doors, my father told me that a king should be able to go out of one and come in through another and nobody know his mind. I know that to rule is to keep your own counsel. Harry is a boy now, but one day he will be a man and he will have to make up his own mind and judge well. I will remember that he can say one thing and think another.

  But I have learned something else about him too. When I saw that he did not weep one real tear for his grandmother I knew that this king, our golden Harry, has a cold heart that no one can trust. She had been as a mother to him; she had dominated his childhood. She had cared for him, watched over him, and taught him herself. She supervised his every waking moment and shielded him from every unpleasant sight, she kept him from tutors who would have taught him of the world, and allowed him to walk only in the gardens of her making. She spent hours on her knees in prayer for him and insisted that he be taught the rule and the power of the church. But when she stood in his way, when she denied him his pleasures, he saw her as his enemy; and he cannot forgive anyone who refuses him something he wants. I know from this that this boy, this charming boy, will grow to be a man whose selfishness will be a danger to himself, and to those around him. One day we may all wish that his grandmother had taught him better.

  24TH JUNE 1509

  They carried Catalina from the Tower to Westminster as an English princess. She traveled in a litter made of cloth of gold, carried high by four white palfreys so everyone could see her. She wore a gown of white satin and a coronet set with pearls, her hair brushed out over her shoulders. Harry was crowned first and then Catalina bowed her head and took the holy oil of kingship on her head and breasts, stretched out her hand for the scepter and the ivory wand, knew that, at last, she was a queen, as her mother had been: an anointed queen, a greater being than mere mortals, a step closer to the angels, appointed by God to rule His country, and under His especial protection. She knew that finally she had fulfilled the destiny that she had been born for, she had taken her place, as she had promised that she would.

  She took a throne just a little lower than King Henry’s, and the crowd that cheered for the handsome young king coming to his throne also cheered for her, the Spanish princess, who had been constant against the odds and was crowned Queen Katherine of England at last.

  I have waited for this day for so long that when it comes it is like a dream, like the dreams I have had of my greatest desires. I go through the coronation ceremony: my place in the procession, my seat on the throne, the cool lightness of the ivory rod in my hand, my other hand tightly gripping the heavy scepter, the deep heady scent of the holy
oil on my forehead and breasts, as if it is another dream of longing for Arthur.

  But this time it is real.

  When we come out of the abbey and I hear the crowd cheer for him, for me, I turn to look at my husband beside me. I am shocked then, a sudden shock like waking suddenly from a dream—that he is not Arthur. He is not my love. I had expected to be crowned beside Arthur and for us to take our thrones together. But instead of the handsome, thoughtful face of my husband, it is Harry’s round, flushed beam. Instead of my husband’s shy, coltish grace, it is Harry’s exuberant swagger at my side.

  I realize at that moment that Arthur really is dead, really gone from me. I am fulfilling my part of our promise, marrying the King of England, even though it is Harry. Please God, Arthur is fulfilling his part: to watch over me from al-Yanna and to wait for me there. One day, when my work is done and I can go to my love, I will live with him forever.

  “Are you happy?” the boy asks me, shouting to make himself heard above the pealing of the bells and the cheering of the crowds. “Are you happy, Catalina? Are you glad that I married you? Are you glad to be Queen of England, that I have given you this crown?”

  “I am very happy,” I promise him. “And you must call me Katherine now.”

  “Katherine?” he asks. “Not Catalina anymore?”

  “I am Queen of England,” I say, thinking of Arthur saying these very words. “I am Queen Katherine of England.”

  “Oh, I say!” he exclaims, delighted at the idea of changing his name, as I have changed mine. “That’s good. We shall be King Henry, and Queen Katherine. They shall call me Henry too.”

  This is the king but he is not Arthur, he is Harry who wants to be called Henry, like a man. I am the queen, and I shall not be Catalina. I shall be Katherine—English through and through, and not the girl who was once so very much in love with the Prince of Wales.

  Katherine,

  Queen of England

  Summer 1509

  THE COURT, DRUNK WITH JOY, with delight in its own youth, with freedom, took the summer for pleasure. The progress from one beautiful, welcoming house to another lasted for two long months when Henry and Katherine hunted, dined in the greenwood, danced until midnight, and spent money like water. The great lumbering carts of the royal household went along the dusty lanes of England so that the next house might shine with gold and be bright with tapestries, so that the royal bed—which they shared every night—would be rich with the best linen and the glossiest furs.

  No business of any worth was transacted by Henry at all. He wrote once to his father-in-law to tell him how happy he was, but the rest of the work for the king followed him in boxes from one beautiful parkland castle or mansion to another, and these were opened and read only by Katherine, Queen of England, who ordered the clerks to write her orders to the Privy Council and sent them out herself over the king’s signature.

  Not until mid-September did the court return to Richmond and Henry at once declared that the party should go on. Why should they ever cease in pleasure? The weather was fair, they could have hunting and boating, archery and tennis contests, parties and masquings. The nobles and gentry flocked to Richmond to join the unending party: the families whose power and name were older than the Tudors’ and the new ones, whose wealth and names were bobbing upwards on the rise of the Tudor tide, floated by Tudor wealth. The victors of Bosworth who had staked their lives on the Tudor courage in great danger found themselves alongside newcomers who made their fortunes on nothing more than Tudor amusements.

  Henry welcomed everyone with uncritical delight; anyone who was witty and well read, charming or a good sportsman could have a place at court. Katherine smiled on them all, never rested, never refused a challenge or an invitation, and set herself the task of keeping her teenage husband entertained all the day long. Slowly but surely, she drew the management of the entertainments, then of the household, then of the king’s business, then of the kingdom, into her hands.

  Queen Katherine had the accounts for the royal court spread out before her, a clerk to one side, a comptroller of the household with his great book to another, the men who served as exchequers of the household standing behind her. She was checking the books of the great departments of the court: the kitchen, the cellar, the wardrobe, the servery, the payments for services, the stables, the musicians. Each department of the palace had to compile its monthly expenditure and send it to the Queen’s Exchequer—just as they had sent it to My Lady the King’s Mother, for her to approve their business, and if they overspent by very much, they could expect a visit from one of the exchequers for the Privy Purse to ask them pointedly if they could explain why costs had so suddenly risen?

  Every court in Europe was engaged in the struggle to control the cost of running the sprawling feudal households with the newly fashionable wealth and display. All the kings wanted a great entourage, like a mediaeval lord; but now they wanted culture, wealth, architecture and rich display as well. England was managed better than any court in Europe. Queen Katherine had learned her housekeeping skills the hard way: when she had tried to run Durham House as a royal palace should be run, but with no income. She knew to a penny what was the price of a gallon loaf, she knew the difference between salted fish and fresh, she knew the price of cheap wine imported from Spain and expensive wine brought in from France. Even more rigorous than that of My Lady the King’s Mother, Queen Katherine’s scrutiny of the household books made the cooks argue with suppliers at the kitchen doors and get the very best price for the extravagantly consuming court.

  Once a week Queen Katherine surveyed the expenditure of the different departments of the court, and every day at dawn, while King Henry was out hunting, she read the letters that came for him, and drafted his replies.

  It was steady, unrelenting work, to keep the court running as a well-ordered center for the country and to keep the king’s business under tight control. Queen Katherine, determined to understand her new country, did not begrudge the hours she spent reading letters, taking advice from Privy Councilors, inviting objections, taking opinions. She had seen her own mother dominate a country by persuasion. Isabella of Spain had brokered her country out of a collection of rival kingships and lordships by offering them a trouble-free, cheap, central administration, a nationwide system of justice, an end to corruption and banditry, and an infallible defense system. Her daughter saw at once that these advantages could be transferred to England.

  But she was also following in the steps of her Tudor father-in-law, and the more she worked on his papers and read his letters, the more she admired the steadiness of his judgment. Oddly, she wished now that she had known him as a ruler, as she would have benefited from his advice. From his records she could see how he balanced the desire of the English lords to be independent, on their own lands, with his own need to bind them to the crown. Cunningly, he allowed the northern lords greater freedom and greater wealth and status than anyone, since they were his bulwark against the Scots. Katherine had maps of the northern lands pinned around the council chamber and saw how the border with Scotland was nothing more than a handful of disputed territories in difficult country. Such a border could never be made safe from a threatening neighbor. She thought that the Scots were England’s Moors: the land could not be shared with them. They would have to be utterly defeated.

  She shared her father-in-law’s fears of overmighty English lords at court, she learned his jealousy of their wealth and power; and when Henry thought to give one man a handsome pension in an exuberant moment, it was Katherine who pointed out that he was a wealthy man already, there was no need to make his position any stronger. Henry wanted to be a king famed for his generosity, beloved for the sudden shower of his gifts. Katherine knew that power followed wealth and that kings new-come to their throne must hoard both wealth and power.

  “Did your father never warn you about the Howards?” she asked as they stood together watching an archery contest. Henry, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, his bo
w in his hand, had the second-highest score and was waiting for his turn to go again.

  “No,” he replied. “Should he have done so?”

  “Oh, no,” she said swiftly. “I did not mean to suggest that they would play you false in any way, they are love and loyalty personified. Thomas Howard has been a great friend to your family, keeping the north safe for you, and Edward is my knight, my dearest knight of all. It is just that their wealth has increased so much, and their family alliances are so strong. I just wondered what your father thought of them.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Henry said easily. “I wouldn’t have asked him. He wouldn’t have told me anyway.”

  “Not even when he knew you were to be the next king?”

  He shook his head. “He thought I wouldn’t be king for years yet,” he said. “He had not finished making me study my books. He had not yet let me out into the world.”

  She shook her head. “When we have a son we will make sure he is prepared for his kingdom from an early age.”

  At once his hand stole around her waist. “Do you think it will be soon?” he asked.

  “Please God,” she said sweetly, withholding her secret hope. “Do you know, I have been thinking of a name for him?”

  “Have you, sweetheart? Shall you call him Ferdinand for your father?”

  “If you would like it, I thought we might call him Arthur,” she said carefully.

  “For my brother?” His face darkened at once.

  “No, Arthur for England,” she said swiftly. “When I look at you sometimes I think you are like King Arthur of the Round Table, and this is Camelot. We are making a court here as beautiful and as magical as Camelot ever was.”

  “Do you think that, little dreamer?”