I smiled wistfully, the days of sanctuary stirring in my heart. “I don’t know how we didn’t bump into one another.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had a Thomas of my own. He was one of our guards, too. We used to meet by the stone bench by the pond. Henry almost executed him. I got him a pardon but his brother wasn’t as fortunate—” I blinked to banish the vision that rose before me of Humphrey suffering a traitor’s death.
“Who was he?”
“Best that it remain a secret, Cecily. For his sake. You understand?”
“What happened to him?” she asked, after a pause.
“He married someone else. He has a brood of children, so I hear tell.”
Thomas had written me a note in the breviary; not much, but enough. He had thanked me for the gift of his life, and said all was well but that there were some things the heart could not let go. “He was a good man. I would have been happy with him.” I turned my gaze to the window, where the outside world made tumult and wheeled past, oblivious of me.
“O sister, I’m so sorry—” She broke off and dabbed at her eye.
“No need, Cecily,” I replied. “Fate determines life, and I must serve a penance.”
“For what? What did you ever do that requires penance?”
“I loved my uncle.”
Cecily took my hand. “He was a good man, Elizabeth. I have prayed for him.”
I heaved a sigh. “Tell me, Cecily, what is it like being married to the one you love?” I asked.
“Every day is a blessing,” she replied in a dreamy voice, “and a miracle.”
AS WE PLAYED CARDS IN THE SOLAR AT RICHMOND, a messenger entered and fell to a knee before us.
“Sire,Your Grace, the princess of Spain arrived at Plymouth on the second of October,” he said.
Henry smiled broadly. Not since Henry V conquered France and wed the daughter of the King of France had there been an English marriage of such grandeur. Not only was Arthur marrying the daughter of the most powerful monarch in Europe, but she was bringing with her as dowry wagons filled with an enormous collection of jewels, plate, tapestries, fine clothes, and beautifully carved beds.
“You shall have the honor of greeting the princess,” Henry said, turning to Harry, “and accompanying her on her entry into London.”
Harry beamed to be assigned such an important duty.
The next day, with an escort of nobles wrapped in thick capes against the pouring rain, Harry rode out the gates to meet Catherine of Aragon and escort her to Lambeth Palace. Arthur left his castle in the Welsh Marches to join them, and Henry and I departed for Westminster with the court. Soon my eldest son was riding up Fleet Street with his betrothed, to the wild cheers of the people. I heard the roaring of his name even at Westminster. “Arthur, Arthur!” they called. “Long live our beloved Prince Arthur!” Intermingled were shouts for Catherine: “Blessings on the Bright Star of Spain!” I ran to the window with Kate and Cecily to watch the procession approach. We all gasped at the same moment, our breath caught by the beauty of it all.
“It looks like some marvel from legend,” I murmured in awe.
As far as the eye could see, gold chains glittered, jewels flashed, and the colorful silks and velvets of the English nobles shone in the sun, vying in splendor with the Moorish brocades of the Spanish dignitaries. In the center rode the princess herself, sidesaddle on a gorgeously caparisoned mule. I peered into the distance for my first glimpse of the girl who would be Arthur’s wife. She had the aura of beauty, and though diminutive, made a striking figure with her red hair flowing loose beneath a broad brimmed hat tied at the chin with gold lace. Her Spanish ladies followed her on mules, their unbound tresses pouring down their backs, each paired with an English counterpart who wore a jeweled gable headdress and rode aside on a palfrey.
“Catherine is fair, and has a beautiful smile,” Kate added.
“Indeed. And that must be her duena in the black.”
“Is that Harry, on her right? He seems so small,” Cecily noted.
“Don’t tell him that. He considers himself a very large man,” I smiled.
The procession clattered triumphantly across London Bridge, which had been washed and hung with tapestries and carpets, the rotted heads taken down. Crowds pressed against the railings, cheering lustily. We went to the cobbled court and took our places to await the royal arrivals. As soon as Arthur caught sight of me, he leapt from his horse in one elegant, sweeping motion. I embraced my lanky son and gazed up at him through the tears of joy that always blurred my first sight of him.
“You grow ever more handsome, my dear one,” I said with pride. Beneath a richly feathered black velvet cap, his dark chin-length hair framed a square face that had gained in maturity, and in his gray eyes was reflected the merry twinkle he reserved for me alone. I clasped him to my breast once again, unwilling to let him go. Soon he would be married at St. Paul’s Cathedral and belong to someone else. Then I saw Harry watching us with his small truculent eyes.
Harry was always at his best on horseback where one saw neither his chunkiness nor his stocky build. Clad in a fur-lined coat with a heavy gold chain over his shoulders, his pink and white face filled with hauteur, his red-gold hair curling nearly down to his shoulders beneath a plumed cap, he cut a princely figure. He gave me a nod.
Henry moved forward in greeting. “Welcome, dear princess! We are heartily gladdened to have you here at last.”
Arthur returned to Catherine’s side. Placing his hands around her small waist, he helped her dismount. It seemed a moment taken from one of the glorious scenes of chivalry that flowed like murals in my mind: the handsome prince, the lovely princess uplifted in his arms, the gracious smiles exchanged between them as the prince looked up at her and she gazed down at him. Nor was the scene lost on those watching, for a loud cheer went up, and Catherine’s duena took out a handkerchief and sobbed noisily.
We turned and entered the palace. Once the formalities were over, I embraced the sixteen-year-old girl and welcomed her in Latin, for I knew no Spanish, and she no English. As we sat together on the settle, I asked her many questions about Spain, hoping it would bring her comfort to talk about her home, and family.
“She seems a lovely girl, but she must be terribly lonely,” I said to Kate and Cecily later that evening as we relaxed in my chamber after the gathering. “She is so far from home and everything familiar.”
“I look at her and see what might have been my future,” Kate murmured, “wed to the King of Castile, alone in a foreign land, learning strange customs. Poor child.”
“I feel sorry for her, too,” Cecily said. “Though she shall be a queen.”
“Catherine of Aragon will accept her destiny, as we must all do,” I said. “For royal princesses, there is no choice. ’Tis what God ordained for us.”
Kate smiled at me. “But thanks to you, sister, I am one fortunate royal princess. For I reside here in England and am married to a man of my choice. ’Tis a good lot.”
I squeezed her hand.
“And I, “ said Cecily, “who was once promised to the King of Scotland—and but for the grace of God, might be queen of the barbarous Scotsmen as we speak—am wed to a humble and most charming squire. ’Tis thanks to you, sister, that I am received again at court and have back some of the lands that were confiscated from me. I, too, am grateful for my lot.”
“I wonder if Anne would say the same, were she here,” Kate mused. “She was to wed Philip, Archduke of Austria, who has now taken mad Juana of Castile as wife. They say he is very handsome.”
“Anne married for love, and I know she would have it no other way,” said Cecily. “Why do you think she’s not here with us now? ’Tis that she prefers her husband’s company.”
I smiled, but it was as if a sad wind sighed through my heart.
Kate said,“And Bridget is where she wishes to be.”
Cecily took my hand and pressed it between her own. “Thank you, sister—
thank you from us all for your gift to us of happiness.”
ON SUNDAY, NOVEMBER FOURTEENTH, 1501, I WATCHED the kneeling, white-satin-clad figures of Arthur and veiled Catherine at the altar of St. Paul’s as they murmured the words that would bind them together until death. My babe had grown up, and I was losing him. Soon I would lose another child, for Maggie would assume the burden of wife in a foreign land, far from home and everything that was familiar and dear to her. Like this princess, Catherine of Aragon.
Perhaps life will treat them more gently, I thought. I could hope for that kindness. Yet I was gripped by a strange unease. Are shadows lurking even now to take our joy from us? The ghosts and horrors of the past always felt so close at times like these, and never closer than now, and for once I did not condemn Margaret Beaufort for sobbing loudly beside me. I shook my morbid thoughts from my mind.
The wedding banquet took place at the bishop’s palace. I barely touched my food, tempted neither by tarts nor by castles of jelly. The evening seemed unreal; sounds came muffled to my ears and the scene unfolded before me dimly, as if I watched in a distant mirror. Catherine and her ladies were performing to a wild Spanish melody, whirling their skirts and clicking pieces of wood they held in their hands, and Harry had taken the floor to dance with Maggie, but why was he only in his hose and shirt? I looked at Henry. He was laughing. He said something about Harry being so excited that he had removed his jacket. Then Henry clapped. Why was he happy? Did he not realize that soon it would be time to give up yet another child? In December, the Scottish ambassadors would come to court to perform the proxy marriage of our Maggie to James IV of Scotland.
I pressed a hand to my temple; the vow she would take was hammering in my head: “I, Margaret, first begotten daughter of King HenryVII, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last passed, contract marriage with the high and mighty prince James, King of Scotland . . . and thereto I plight him my troth.”
The words would make her Queen of Scotland. I gripped the sidearm of my chair. She cannot go yet—she will not go yet! She is too young! Twelve is too young—
Twenty is too young, came the thought as I remembered my first night with Henry.
I made up my mind to confront him about her. If I did not speak up for my child, who would? Men did not know, could not imagine, the horror of the sex act forced on a woman without love. Let her stay with me until she is fourteen, I would plead. There are too many dangers. What if she bears a child—it could kill her. She may be tall and comely, but she is still too young for the duties of a woman. Let me teach her more of the responsibilities of court before she leaves forever.
If need be, I would fall to my knees before him.
I realized that the crowd had risen. They seemed drunk and were hooting and applauding. I turned to Arthur. He was leaving with Catherine. It was time to consummate the marriage.
I know not what else happened that night, for I was dizzy and nauseated, and my head pounded. But in the morning Kate told me that Arthur rang early for a drink and said, “I have this night been in the midst of Spain which is a hot region, and that journey has made me dry.”
My son was a man. He would be king, and rule wisely with his beautiful queen. It was what I had always wished. So why did I weep?
Harry’s voice came at my elbow as I stood in my chamber looking out the window. “Mother, why are you sad?”
I had not heard him come in, and I remembered the last time he had surprised me this way. I had been gazing at Richard’s portrait, and I’d feared he would tell his father, but he had not, maybe because he hated his father more than he resented me. He stood before me now, his stout legs apart, his cherubic face gazing at me sorrowfully. I placed my arm around his shoulder.
“ ’Twas a question I was just asking myself, Harry, and I know not the answer. Did you enjoy the wedding banquet last evening?”
His face lit. “I enjoyed it immensely, Mother!” he exclaimed with his usual exuberance. “And I like Catherine of Aragon so well, I would marry her myself.”
I laughed.
“If something should happen to Arthur, may I wed her?”
My merriment vanished. I dropped my hand. “Why do you ask such a question?”
“People die. Edmund died.”
“Edmund was only a year old. He died in infancy. Babes die in infancy. But Arthur is fifteen. Grown men are hardy and many enjoy long life, excepting war and execution. Look at Morton, and Rotherham. They lived to be eighty.”
“Oh,” said Harry, with a shrug.
He left the room, for it was evident to him that our conversation had come to a halt. Now I knew beyond all doubt that Harry wished Arthur dead. Misery engulfed me like a leaden weight. Swept with a need for movement and change of scene, I took my cloak and went out to the walled garden. I sat quietly on the cold, snowy bench. A few birds approached, but I had no crumbs to give them. Through my anguish and distress, I felt Arthur’s arms enfold me in warmth.
“Mama,” he said softly, as he had when he was a child. He bent over me from behind and hugged me, his cheek against mine.
“You have not lost me. When I return next year, who knows? I may bring you yet another to love, God willing.”
I caught his hand and drew him before me. “You have always understood me, Arthur, even when you were but a boy.” I heaved a long breath. “Forgive me, my sweet son. I am being foolish. Everything seems different now, yet nothing has really changed, has it?”
He took a seat beside me on the bench, and I laid my head against his shoulder. A little wind rustled through the yew.
“It seems to me that I have prepared myself for this moment since I first held you in my arms,” I murmured. “It should be easy to let you go now. I’ve done it so many times before, after all.” I smiled at him through my tears. “Yet it grows harder.”
“I love you, Mother. You cannot know how much,” Arthur said.
I kissed his cheek.
“When I was a boy, you seemed a goddess to me,” he went on. “So beautiful, so serene, gentle and kind. A splendid queen in every way. Every time I read Malory, I would think of you. For me, you were Guinevere reborn, and I remember hoping I would find a queen just like you when I grew up.”
“And now you have, Arthur. Catherine is a lovely girl and will make you happy.”
For a long moment we sat together, savoring the winter scene and the song of the birds. “Before you came to me,” I said in a low voice, dim with memory, “I was in darkness, and when you were born, my world filled with light. From that glorious moment, you banished the loneliness in my heart. Maybe ’tis for that your absence always pains me so.”
The clock on the church tower struck the hour of Terce.
“Time passes so swiftly when you are with me.” I sighed. “We should return to the others. They must be wondering where we are.”
We rose, and I turned my blurred gaze full on his shining face. “Know that I am proud of you, Arthur. In you, I see my pledge to England redeemed in the most wondrous way. Go forth and fulfill your destiny, my beloved. And may the Blessed Mother have you in her keeping, always.”
WE CELEBRATED ARTHUR’S WEDDING WITH MANY feasts and disguisings and a lavish tournament in which Kate’s husband, William Courtenay, proved his courage to the cheering crowds and won the prize of a ruby. Then, abruptly, the festivities ended.
It was drizzling the day Arthur left for Ludlow. I embraced my son for a long moment, more reluctant than ever to release him. Then Henry laid his hand on my sleeve. I forced a deep breath, and stepped back. Swept with desolation, I watched him ride away. But I must not forget my blessings, I thought, giving Maggie a kiss on her brow as I stood in the rain. She had been married before Twelfth Night according to plan, but Henry had listened to me. She would not go to Scotland until she was fourteen.
Nevertheless, the raw emptiness inside me could be mended only by prayer. I turned to my book of hours and my prie-dieu, I read Richard’s book, Tristan, and g
azed on his portrait when it was safe to do, and I received petitioners until I could no longer stand. All this gave me a solidity that kept sorrow at bay. Lucy Neville was always at my side, along with Kate, but that too would soon change. Lucy was betrothed to Sir Anthony Browne, and come May, she would leave for her own estates. I had contrived the match with her approval, for though Sir Anthony was twice her age, at thirty she was no longer young. Theirs would be a splendid match. He was kind, good, and rich. They would be happy together.
In April, the land shed its dull winter mantle, and my thoughts turned to Ludlow. Perhaps, even now, Catherine is with child and we shall receive joyous news, I thought. How sweet to cradle Arthur’s child in my arms. To know the little one shall be king after him, and Arthur’s legacy shall be passed down through a succession of crowns, each king to rule England with wisdom and justice.
It was just after dawn on the fifth of the month, and I had completed my prayers and was about to break fast with my ladies when a knock came at my door. Lucy Neville entered with a curtsy.
“My queen, the king desires your company in his chamber.”
“At this hour?” I murmured, taken aback. Then I noticed the knight standing behind her, clad in Henry’s colors. A warm glow flowed through me. “Is it news from Ludlow?” I asked, smiling broadly.
“I know not,Your Grace,” he replied.
He seems glum to be the bearer of such glad tidings, I thought, and said no more to him. By the time I arrived at Henry’s door, I knew from the somber expressions I had encountered along the way that something was amiss and my heart took up a rapid beating. I stepped into the room as the door shut behind me, and then looked at Henry and gasped. He was still in his morning robe, and his face, which had been an unreadable mask of iron control through all the troubles of his life, was distorted with grief. I did not, until this moment, believe he had the capacity to feel such a depth of emotion.
“What is it? What has happened?” I uttered through frozen lips.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 39