To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York

by Jean Plaidy

  They came out into the sunshine. Young Henry was resentful. He did not feel that he had acted as a chivalrous knight.

  Henry had lost a certain pleasure in himself. The perfect knight had broken his vows; he had acted in a way which the laws of chivalry would have condemned as debasing; and he had acted so because he had been afraid to do otherwise. He could not forget Katharine in her well-worn gowns looking to him, he fancied, with an appeal in her eyes. She had looked to him as her savior and he had repudiated her.

  It was not the role in which he saw himself. Usually he could lead his mind away from thoughts of disloyalty to himself. But there was the evidence in very fact; he had signed his name to that paper indicating that he did not consider himself bound to Katharine.

  It was policy. His father had insisted and he had to obey his father who was more than an ordinary father; he was the King. A true knight obeyed his king without question. No, not when the case was a dishonorable one. Then a good and true knight rebelled. He served God first, the King second. Whichever way Henry looked at it he came up against his conscience.

  It was the first time in his life that he realized what a strong force that was with him. He wanted to be above all other men and recognized to be so. He had little patience with the saints. He wanted to be a man. He must be the superior every time—in stature, in looks, in skill both mental and physical. He must excel at the joust; he was always to be the victor; he must win every battle against his adversaries. He must possess the best qualities of all his most illustrious ancestors. He must tower above them all in every way.

  He wanted people to admire him. To look up to him. To say: There is a king victorious always, never failing in war . . . in peace . . . in honor.

  There was the rub. He had gone through what was tantamount to a marriage ceremony with Katharine; and now he had denied it; and he knew why. It was because her mother was dead and the Kingdom of Castile had not passed to Katharine’s father Ferdinand (which would have meant Katharine remained an important factor in policy making), but had gone to Isabella’s sister who had an ambitious husband. Therefore Katharine was no longer to be considered so the King had forced his son most cynically to repudiate her.

  And I did it, thought Henry.

  Katharine was never far from his thoughts. He was ashamed of his action and as it was against his policy ever to be in the wrong he began to look for excuses for his conduct. It was no use telling himself that his father had forced him to do it, because it destroyed his image of himself if he allowed himself to be forced. That was why the matter was so disturbing. There had to be a reason why he had done what he had and it had to be a good one. His conscience demanded that.

  It came in due course.

  It was Charles Brandon who found it for him—not that Charles knew it. Charles was a gossip and took great delight in gathering the secrets of those about him. He had always been particularly interested in Katharine not only because she was affianced to Henry and was destined to become the future Queen, but because she belonged to one of the most important Houses in Europe.

  Now he talked a great deal about the death of Isabella and the difference this would make in Spain.

  “They say the Princess Katharine is desolate. She and her mother were on the best of terms.”

  Henry frowned; he remembered that Katharine had asked her mother to send for her, to take her back to Spain which meant of course that she preferred that to marrying him.

  That had been unflattering; but it was not enough excuse for breaking his sworn promise to her. His conscience would not accept that—although he had tried hard to make it do so.

  “And the Kingdom of Castile goes to Katharine’s sister . . . mad Juana, they call her.”

  “Is she truly mad?”

  “Mad indeed. There is madness in the family.”

  Hope shone in Henry’s eyes, but this was dispelled immediately by Brandon’s light remark: “Well, is there not madness somewhere in most families?”

  “It is a wonder,” said Henry, “that they allowed her to marry.”

  “Who would not marry a mad woman for the sake of a crown?”

  Henry shivered.

  “Philip has her under control. They say he is extremely handsome.”

  “Is he, do you think?”

  “Oh yes. Undoubtedly so. Juana is possessively in love. She cannot bear him out of her sight.”

  “She is a warm-hearted lady.”

  “My dear Prince, she burns with passion,” Charles laughed. “I should like to meet her. Do you know the latest story about her? I have it on good authority and can swear to the truth of it. Philip indulges himself, you know. He is not the man to content himself with one woman . . . even if she had been a paragon of the virtues . . . which Juana is not.”

  “She loves him passionately, you say?”

  “Passionate possessive love becomes cloying . . . as no doubt you will learn one day, my Prince. There is no doubt that you are going to be the target of much tender passion.”

  Henry glowed with pleasure at the prospect.

  “But steer clear of women like Juana.”

  “What is this story you have heard?”

  “Oh it is about Philip’s mistress. She was very very beautiful with the longest most luxuriant golden hair ever seen in the land. Philip doted on her and Juana was furiously jealous. Well, Philip had to leave Court for a while. Juana then . . . remember she is the Queen in her own right and I’ll swear she has inherited something of her mother’s authoritative ways . . . well, she summoned the woman to her palace.”

  “And the woman went?”

  “It was impossible for her to do otherwise. How could she disobey the royal command?”

  “And then?”

  “Juana had her bound hand and foot, called in the barbers and had them cut off that beautiful golden hair. In fact they shaved her head. . . .”

  Henry was aghast. “She did that. And Philip . . . what of Philip?”

  “When he came back he was horrified. I think it was the end of that mistress. Hair takes a long time to grow and he is not a man to stand still, they say. But it did not endear his wife to him . . . and everyone who knows her says she is quite insane. . . .”

  “And this is Katharine’s sister. . . .”

  “Katharine is quite different. Juana is the only one to inherit the madness. There is nothing of the wild woman about Katharine. I hear she is very devout and spends a great deal of time on her knees. I even hear that she expressed a desire to give herself up to a life of prayer.”

  “What when she marries?”

  Brandon laughed aloud. “Alas, her poor husband! But I’ll swear if he is the man I believe him to be he will see that she gives up quite a bit of time to other activities.”

  Henry laughed with Brandon but he was thinking: a life of prayer! How could a woman do her duty to her husband and the state by living like a nun? It would be a good excuse for not marrying at all.

  His conscience liked the idea. He brooded on it. What Katharine had said—or what he had heard she had said—meant that the life she would prefer was that of a nun.

  He had no intention of telling anyone what he was thinking. He did not want an avowal from Katharine that the stories circulated about her were untrue and that she was ready to be all that was expected of a wife when the time came.

  Henry wanted to put it on paper that he had had a good reason for doing what he did. He wanted to be able to proclaim to the world that the marriage with Katharine of Aragon would not be good for the state. He had not repudiated her for any personal reasons and certainly not because he was afraid to stand up to his father for what was right.

  Then the idea came to him. He would write to the Pope. He would tell no one. But his letter would be there on record if ever he was called on to answer for his action.

  He made several drafts of the letter and finally produced one which he could send. In it he told Pope Julius that Katharine had made a vow dedicating herself t
o an austere life. She would fast, and give up her time to prayers and pilgrimages. He asked the Pope to forbid her to do this as such practices would injure her health and possibly affect her ability to bear children. He was deeply concerned about this as it would in time be his duty to get heirs for England; and if Katharine would not give up this way of life marriage would be impossible.

  He waited in trepidation for the reply; but he was at peace with his conscience. He had had a very good reason for signing that document, which while it did not actually annul the ceremony through which he and Katharine had gone, it did give him a loophole to escape if necessary.

  The Pope treated his letter with the utmost seriousness and replied that any vows Katharine had made which might affect the health of her body could be revoked by her husband.

  The husband was master of the wife and the procreation of children was the very special blessing of matrimony and Henry had the Church’s full permission to restrain his wife and to prevent her from carrying out any vows she might have made which would endanger her ability to perform those functions, which were the duty of a wife.

  Henry was delighted. Now if he should not wish—or not be allowed—to marry Katharine he had a very good excuse for not doing so. He could produce a copy of the letter he had sent to the Pope’s reply. He could say Katharine’s way of life had made marriage with her unsuitable and it was for this reason that he had signed the repudiation—not because his father had forced him to.

  He became happy again.

  But he had discovered his conscience and he knew that forever more it would be necessary to placate it.

  The King was still looking for a wife and his eyes had turned to France. The Comte d’Angoulême had died leaving a widow with two children, Francçois and Marguerite. It seemed that the son Francçois had a chance of reaching the throne of France for he was the nephew of Louis the Twelfth. The widowed Comtesse was considered to be very beautiful and gifted and her daughter Marguerite, who was about a year younger than Henry, had a reputation for a beauty and intelligence, which equaled that of her mother.

  So the King’s eyes had turned to this family.

  Why not the mother for him and the daughter for Henry?

  Young Henry was told by his father that emissaries had been sent to Angoulême to discover the state of affairs there. The King thought the match would be an ideal one for it did appear that the Spanish connection was becoming weaker every month.

  The Prince was very interested in Marguerite and wanted to hear all that he could about her. He had decided that Katharine had ruined her health by her refusal to lead the life of an ordinary Court lady. He shut his eyes to the fact that she was too short of money to do so, and he refused to listen to those who hinted that something should be done about this. It was for her family to help her, he reasoned. The dowry . . . well that had not been paid and he had heard that a great part of the first instalment had been in jewelery which she had pawned.

  He pretended to be rather shocked by that. For did the jewelery indeed belong to Katharine?

  He was building up quite a little bank of excuses why he should not marry her.

  And here was Marguerite—younger than he was, which was better than being five years older. She was very beautiful. He liked that. She was very clever. He liked that less. He did not want a wife who thought herself as clever as he was. Still Marguerite sounded most exciting.

  He questioned one of the men who had gone to the Court of Angoulême because he wanted to hear a firsthand account of someone who had actually seen her.

  “I would like you to tell me the absolute truth,” he said. “Hold nothing back. I shall take it ill if I find that you have given me too glowing a picture that was not true.”

  “I would not dream of doing so, my lord,” was the answer. “But I can tell you that Marguerite of Angoulême is one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever seen. She is brilliantly clever. She writes poetry and enjoys the company of poets. She is the constant companion of her brother, the young Duc d’Angoulême.”

  “And what of him?”

  “He is handsome, gracious, sparkling, my lord.”

  Henry frowned; he did not like other people to be too brilliant.

  “They are indeed a most beautiful trio.”

  “Trio?”

  “The mother, the brother, and the sister. They are always together but the object of their adoration is Duc François.”

  “He is younger than I.”

  “Yes, my lord, by a few years. He loves his sister dearly and she loves him. She is probably the more cultivated of the two—very learned in Greek, Latin and Philosophy. It is clear that the Duchess hopes her son will be the King of France she calls him her king, her lord and her Caesar.”

  Henry was envious. He would have enjoyed being so adored. He thought of his sister—another Margaret—who had pretended to be contemptuous of him. And there was certainly no adoration from his father; as for his mother, she had been kind and tender, but he could not imagine her calling him Caesar.

  He began to feel mildly irritated with these perfect beings.

  “And Marguerite, what does she call this wonder brother of hers?”

  “Caesar indeed. All their hopes and dreams and love are centered on that boy. I wonder he has not more conceit of himself than he has . . . but that is great enough. His mother talks of nothing else but the wonders of this boy . . . nor does the sister. It seems that a short while ago he let loose a wild boar in the courtyard at Amboise, which set the palace guards to flight but François himself chased the boar up the apartments, killed it with his sword and sent it rolling down the great staircase to the courtyard. They speak of all he does as though they were the greatest deeds worthy of the Court of King Arthur. I tell you, my lord, what the mother and sister feel for François of Angoulême is sheer idolatry. They think there is no one in the world like him . . . nor ever will be.”

  “I daresay Madame Marguerite is of the opinion that no man can match her brother.”

  “That is so, my lord. It is the law at Angoulême.”

  Indeed, was it! The more he heard of this Marguerite the less inclined he felt to take her.

  He was rather glad when no more was heard of the possibility. It might be that wily old Louis the Twelfth had put a stop to it.

  But it made Henry thoughtful. Katharine, meek, turning to prayer because she felt frustrated and may possibly have heard of that rather shameful repudiation of her, seemed rather attractive.

  How grateful she would be if in spite of everything he married her. How different from flamboyant Marguerite. He imagined her coming to the Court. All the time she would be comparing him to this brother of hers. Caesar indeed! Oh yes, there was much to be said for meek and grateful women.

  He began to think of Katharine somewhat romantically. He visualized himself going to her and saying: “They were against our marriage. When I was young they forced me to sign a paper. I did so, but I had no intention of breaking my promises. And here I am, Katharine, ready to rescue you and make you my ever-loving queen.”

  She would never forget what he had done. She would realize that he was a very perfect knight whose honor prevailed through all vicissitudes.

  She would be grateful to him for the rest of their lives.

  His conscience was so happy that it was lying dormant.

  I shall marry Katharine, he told himself, no matter what the opposition.

  And he looked ahead into a misty future. It might well be that when the time came there would be no one to go against his wishes.

  The future looked glorious and rosy. He would dream of Katharine and the chivalrous rescue.

  Shipwreck

  hat winter of the year 1506 was a bleak one. Katharine had suffered miserably from the cold. Her position had certainly not improved and since the death of her mother she had become an encumbrance in Spain as well as in England.

  She very much feared the King; she felt that his attitude toward her was entirely
cynical. He, who had professed affection for her and such delight when she had come to marry Arthur, was now grudging her the small allowance he had made her and letting her see that he very much regretted that she had ever come to England.

  Life was so cruel. She was in this position through a sudden twist of fate. If Arthur had lived she might now be the happy mother of children, the future Queen. If her mother had lived none would have dared treat her in this way. She often wondered if her father had ever really cared for her at all. It seemed to her that his children had been merely the means of helping him to increase his power. She knew that was inevitable to a certain extent but when one of them was placed in a position such as she was, surely some family feeling might have been revived to help that unfortunate one.

  She had pawned so many of her jewels that she was afraid they would not last much longer. The Prince of Wales would be fifteen in June. That had once been the time considered possible for his wedding.

  Would it take place? If it did she would be lifted out of her misery. It must take place.

  For the last year her life had gone from bad to worse. The King was displeased with her father and the alliance between them, which had begun with the marriage of Katharine and Arthur was severely strained. There were the perpetual differences about Katharine’s dowry, and both of them refusing to help her, each using the other as an excuse. So it seems that I, thought Katharine, am of no importance to either of them.

  They were both acquisitive; they were both ruthless in their determination to achieve power and hold it. What did they care for a poor defenseless girl? It had been so different when Queen Isabella was alive.

  In the previous year Ferdinand had remarried. Katharine had been shocked when she heard for she could not bear to think of another in her mother’s place, particularly as he had married a young girl and rumor said he doted on her. Katharine believed he had always been a little jealous of Isabella. She had been his superior in every way, mentally as well as in her possessions, but they had appeared to be fond of each other. Isabella certainly had been of him, but always she had realized his weaknesses and always he had resented her power.