by Saga Hillbom
The court is grief-stricken after Prince Arthur’s funeral, but as I suspected, a political crisis is looming as well. We wait under tense whispering as Catalina is brought back to London, she herself recovering from the same sweating sickness that took her young husband. If she is with child… But no. The Spanish princess is not carrying the heir to the throne, which is all the worse for her, since she is now a redundant commodity to her father-in-law.
Prince Harry, now the new Prince of Wales, must be reined in and begin his tutelage as the future King of England. His sprightly manners, which delight me so, often border on reckless, and the carrot-headed young boy has the character of a crowd-pleaser rather than a sensible liege lord. It would not surprise me if Harry grows up to be every bit as self-indulgent as my own father was late in life, God rest his soul. For once, I hope Tudor lives another five or ten years. No one likes a boy-king, and no one likes a regency.
Once more, my thoughts stray to poor Catalina. Her father, Ferdinand de Aragón, is one of the most stubborn men I have heard of, and refuses to pay the rest of her dowry now that her husband has been ushered to heaven. Tudor, meanwhile, negotiates for the money with an iron fist despite his personal sorrows. While they squabble back and forth, the sixteen-year-old widow remains in England, practically penniless, Tudor refusing to grant her the revenue of the dower lands that are hers by right. How dearly he loves his gold! To him, she has gone from invaluable to a nuisance over a night.
It is then that the question of the wedding night arises. If the marriage was indeed consummated, Ferdinand and Isabel ought to pay the rest of the dowry whether Catalina stays in England or returns to Spain; if it was not, they could even demand that Tudor return what he has already received. Catalina alone knows what happened that November night.
Still intrigued by her exotic retinue, and stung by pity for my nephew’s widow, I ride on my barge downstream to Durham House on the Strand to pay her a visit.
The Infanta receives me in the solar of the fairly grand house, where she and two of her Moorish attendants are occupied with needlework.
During the six months since she entered London on that most glorious of days, Catalina has added several years to her appearance. Where once her face was doll-like, cheekbones now protrude under milky skin; where once her gowns amazed me, black damask now dulls the impression. I hope grief has not aged me in a similar manner. However, as I approach closer, I discover much to my relief that a new set of clothes and a few weeks of hearty meals ought to be enough to transform her back into the priced treasure of Christendom.
‘Welcome, Lady Cecily,’ the Dowager Princess of Wales says as I dip into the slightest of curtsies.
‘My condolences, Madam. You have recovered well from your own illness?’
‘Gracie Deo.’
‘Yes. Forgive my bluntness, Madam, but what do you intend to do when your period of mourning has passed?’ I can stem my curiosity no longer.
Catalina gestures for me to sit with her by the table, and calls for a servant to bring us mulled wine and a plate of sweetmeats. The princess touches none of it, claiming she is fasting for the Ascension and proceeds to answer my question with zeal.
‘Mi padre quiere que me case con el hermano menor. ¡Qué locura!’
I picked up enough of the Spanish ladies’ native tongue during the week of wedding celebrations to discern a few of the words, and I can only stare. ‘Prince Harry?’
Catalina nods, her black veil swirling around her head in an ominous gauze cloud. ‘Es mi destino ser Reina de Inglaterra.’
‘Madame, my Spanish is not what I wish it to be, and I am no canon lawyer, but Harry cannot wed his brother’s widow, surely?’
Catalina takes the trouble to return to her fragmented English. ‘I know more sobre la iglesia and God than you do, Lady Cecily,’ she reminds me. ‘El Papa decides.’
Her words ring true: a papal dispensation can make almost any marriage legal in the eyes of the church. There is something else, though, something emerging from my mist of memories, something Margaret Beaufort once said.
‘Does not the Bible tell that a man who beds his brother’s wife shall be childless?’ I feel quite smug about my sudden mastery of the scripture, though I may be paraphrasing, until I see Catalina’s eyes darken like a stormy sky.
‘It is…grosero to imply I was Arthur’s wife in the flesh. Doña Elvira can tell you I was not. I am maid. No me toca la mano de un hombre.’
My cheeks burn. ‘Pardon me, Madam. I’ve no doubt you understand my curiosity.’
‘I know many speculate. They should not. It is between me and God, and the Almighty knows I am virgin en todos los sentidos.’
So, this girl truly does believe it to be her destiny to be Queen of England. I can make little sense of it, still, there is no denying she cuts a figure not easily trampled to dust. I have seen my fair share of English queens: my mother, who was the most beautiful woman ever to wear the coronet; Anne Neville, who was the bravest; and Elizabeth, who has accomplished everything expected from a king’s obedient spouse. If Catalina de Aragón was to join their lot, she would be the queen to command the greatest respect.
I cannot bring myself to question her further on the consummation of her marriage despite the suspicions that Arthur’s words after the wedding night give me, because if I were in her shoes I would be mortified, embarrassed beyond reprieve. It is only my own curiosity that suffers, for I do not believe every single word in the Bible is necessarily a prophecy, and the possibility of Prince Harry having a childless marriage is so distant to me both in time and likelihood that it feels imagined.
The brevity of Catalina’s marriage to Arthur, and indeed the reminder of the brevity of life that his death is, has spurred me towards the rash action I have been intending since November last year. Thomas and I must be properly wed in a church before some obstacle or other comes in the way, or I fear it will never happen. Our union is already sealed, for we have been betrothed and shared a bed, but without a witnessed ceremony, others could claim it was not so.
My decision will shock not only the court in general, but Elizabeth in particular. Is she aware of the change in me?
I find my sister alone in her privy chambers, seated by the card table, dressed in black for her son. The lines carved around her eyes by grief’s iron chisel is not nearly as distressing to me as the strands of grey I spot in her strawberry-blonde hair, strands I am certain was not there six weeks ago.
‘I am to be married,’ I state, careful to keep my tone as neutral as if I had commented on the weather.
Elizabeth does not look up from her cards. ‘You always had such bawdy humour.’
‘I mean it. I am to be married, and soon, to one of Northumberland’s esquires, Thomas Kyme.’
My own spark of irritability has lit an unexpected fire in my sister. She shoves her chair back and stands, dropping the cards on the table.
‘Have you lost your wits?’ She grabs me by the shoulders in a way she has never done before, then pity creeps into her eyes and extinguishes the flame. ‘Oh, Cecily…You have already taken him to your bed, have you not? Are you with child, is that it?’
I pull away from her. ‘Do not look at me like that. You and Tudor…I remember well enough! And it’s not as if I am the sole sinner in this world. I remember Father’s fancies, also.’ Mayhap it is unwise of me to jump to this last topic, which is still as sensitive as a raw burn, but it is among the first defences that spring to mind.
‘We do not speak of that woman.’ Elizabeth’s voice is cool, her response pure reflex. Jane Shore’s name has not crossed anyone’s lips for years, not since she wed a lawyer and settled. ‘His fancies never harmed his reputation, Cecily. He was the King.’
An incredulous laugh escapes me. ‘Never harmed his reputation? Are you hearing the words coming from your lips? If he had not made a plight-troth to Eleanor Butler—’
‘You cannot know that. No one knows,
not even Mother did.’
‘Uncle Richard thought he knew.’
We stare at each other for an agonizingly long moment. My sister has bitten her nails down to the skin on three fingers already.
‘You never…never told me what you truly thought.’
‘Well, I wanted to believe as Mother and you did, that we were legitimate princesses. I wanted to believe it so much and for so long. But I…I always suspected deep down it might not be so.’ As soon as I have uttered these words, they resonate with me. I could not have been more honest with her.
‘Oh, how can you say such a thing? You shan’t convince me.’
‘I have no desire to. In truth, I…I care little myself, for I’ll soon be gone from court, away from slanderous tongues wagging.’
‘You may not leave me, not when Arthur—’ She clasps a hand to her mouth and I fear she will start to cry. Then, as so often before, she smothers her emotions, smoothing back her glossy facade.
I take a step towards her. ‘You know I grieve for your loss, Beth, more, I daresay, than you grieved for mine. But I am so weary of adjusting my life to what others see fit and proper, what they require and demand.’ Forcing the hint of disquiet from my voice, I bend forth to brush my lips against her cheek. ‘I won’t part with you in an argument, but know this: I mean to be gone within a fortnight, and I mean to be happy.’
Just as I am about to leave my sister to gape after me, she stops me in my tracks, saying: ‘Tell me one last thing. Did Gloucester ever confess to the murders? Did he confess directly to you?’
‘Do not believe everything Mother and Tudor has told you, Beth. It was Buckingham’s deed. There.’
‘You have no evidence.’
I shrug. ‘Perhaps not evidence as clear and hard as would please you, merely a brief letter and an oath that lives in my memory alone, but frankly, you need not heed me. I am finished with this infighting.’
Next on my list is the person who, believe it or not, is essential for the ceremony to take place.
‘Thomas,’ I whisper, putting my hands over his eyes. ‘Do you have a minute or two for me?’
The question is perfunctory and he twists around in his chair, only too happy to put down the pencil in the account book. The numbers blur before my eyes.
‘God Almighty, this is dull!’ He intertwines his fingers with mine. ‘Can you guess how much Northumberland spent on ribbon garters this past fortnight?’
‘A pound?’
‘Five pounds!’
‘For whom, his mistress?’
Thomas grimaces. ‘I do pity the lass, whomever she is.’
I stifle a laugh and put my hands on his shoulders in as serious a fashion as I can bring myself to. ‘I did not come to talk about that boy or his expenses. I came to ask if you will wed me.’
He grins. ‘I thought we agreed on that already. Or did I misinterpret the past six months?’
‘I mean wed me soon. We never decided on a date, but I do not care to wait any longer.’
‘Right you are. I will wed you this very night.’
‘Tonight?’ Not until now did I fully comprehend how quickly my life is to change, how drastically. We will surprise the lot of them—I can imagine Tudor going into a fit once he finds out.
‘Unless you have something else demanding your attention.’
‘Fortunately, I do not. And Thomas? Do take a bath beforehand.’
He laughs and wraps one arm around my waist. ‘You think I stink?’
‘No, of course not! It tends to calm the senses, though. I bathe twice or thrice every month myself.’
‘We’ll see—I would not want to gamble my good health when the best part of my life has only just started.’
After supper that evening, I retire early and dress in my finest gown: scarlet velvet stitched with gold and silver thread, the square neckline cut low to reveal my saffron-coloured kirtle, the sleeves slashed and folded back for yet another peek of rich yellow. I search for the silver caul Thomas gave me that Christmas in sanctuary, but to no avail. I have to make do with a simple coiffure pinned to my head; for this time alone, I let the veil remain in my clothing coffer. After all, there will be none but my betrothed and the priest to see me thus.
Of course, this is not entirely true, since Thomas has tasked two trusted friends to accompany us to Westminster Abbey and serve as witnesses. It is no safe endeavour to be outside in London after darkness has fallen heavy over the city.
Lanterns do light our way to a certain extent, though, sprinkled like fireflies. Upon entering the abbey, we are engulfed in the sheen from hundreds of candles lining the nave and the high altar. I fathom this must be a special order for tonight, because I cannot recall there was ever such warm splendour during my days in sanctuary unless there was something to celebrate or to grieve for.
‘How lovely,’ I whisper to Thomas.
‘Come.’ He steers away from the aisle and leads me by the hand towards the cloisters and smaller chapels.
‘Where…?’ I get no further before we have stepped into the Chapel of the Pyx. ‘You sly weasel.’
‘I knew you would like it. Let’s pray you do not trip during a dance step and bang your head against the wall this time.’
I hardly even notice the priest officiating the ceremony, so caught up am I in casting stealthy looks at my groom. To my joy, he has dressed himself in finer clothes than I have ever seen him wear. In his fashionable midnight-blue doublet and hose paired with shiny leather boots, he could almost be mistaken for a high-ranking nobleman rather than an esquire managing his master’s account book.
On our way back, I tilt my head back to take in the needle-stitch-stars against the night sky, marvelling at what I have done. ‘I feel like a criminal!’
‘Believe me, you’re no worse than a scandal.’
Once we have parted with our bantering companions for guards, it is I who lead him by the hand, hastening through the palace towards my bedchamber.
I dismissed my women for the night before the ceremony and God only knows what they must think, but I have no need of their assistance, especially since Thomas has quite the extraordinary skill for unlacing gowns and locating hairpins. His kisses are light, flitting from my palm to my wrist and my eyelids like the grazing wings of a butterfly. I allow my kirtle and chemise to slip from my shoulders, tugging at the lacings of his doublet with one hand.
I did ask Joan, my favourite maid from Tattershall, for one service this eve. The bath is still steaming, fragrant with lavender and a softer note of vanilla.
‘By Saint Edward—’ Thomas mumbles between the kisses. ’Are you now intent on having me wait for you to wash?’
‘I thought I might convince you of the delights of bathing, beloved,’ I tease. ‘You cannot refuse me now.’
He laughs at that. My own laughter turns to a small shriek the moment I stumble on the bath curtain and we are on the verge of plunging backwards into the water, breaking bones against the marble rim.
‘Sorry, silly, but it seems to me that the bed is safest for now, until you can clear your head, and I mine.’ He discards his doublet on the floor, still laughing, and helps me step out of the garments that are now a circle of scarlet and saffron around my ankles.
My bed has never before been this warm, this accommodating, this longed for. When I rise again, hours later judging by the burnt-down candle on the nearby table, the bath water has long since cooled and is mild against my skin as I lower myself into it. Specks of lavender drift on the surface, gilded in the candlelight. The soap is slippery in my hands, hence I quickly abandon it and merely lean back with my feet propped on the smooth rim.
I have not bothered to draw the curtain, and Thomas pushes himself up on one elbow, head cocked, watching me with an amused twinkle in his eye.
I close my own eyes and sink further back. ‘What?’
‘Have I told you what a sight for sore eyes you are? Your hair is all…
floaty, like a fan around your head. Or a halo.’
‘I am thirty-three.’
‘Really? You could have fooled me you were twenty on the day.’ The irony in his voice is unmistakable, but I do believe he means it, too. He was never one for empty flattery, and thank God for that.
‘Well, I am glad I am not truly that young,’ I concede with a smile. ‘I was not so wise then. I…I could not see the things that mattered most.’
It would be beyond sacrilege to describe the sins we engage in that night, though now it is not adultery. And, surely, most of Christianity would be doomed if a plain old confession could not remedy these things.
Slated beams of early summer sun peek through the window. I pull my knees up to rest my elbows on them, the silky sheets tangled around my waist, my tousled hair loose around my shoulders. Outside, a bird is chirping, soon joined by another and a third. It is still early and only the bustle of servants stirs the palace outside my firmly locked door. Our door. My glance wanders to the figure beside me, sleeping on his stomach with his face buried so deep in the pillow I would have feared he might suffocate, had it not been for the steady rise and fall of his back. The sight of Thomas clutching the embroidered blanket in one hand lures a tickling smile to my lips. He can be such a child sometimes.
I do not know what this day will bring, or where we are to live. I do not know if there will ever come a time when I regret what I have done.
There is such a wealth of things I may never know the truth of. What would have happened if Tudor had been slain before he usurped the throne, who I would have married. Whether my mother or my uncle was in the right about Father’s plight-troth to Lady Eleanor Butler, whether my sisters and I are indeed illegitimate. Who carried out Buckingham’s orders to murder my brothers. There was a time when these uncertainties kept me awake at night—but not any longer.
What does any of it matter now? My brothers are dead and buried regardless. I have been considered legitimate, baseborn, and once more legitimate in the eyes of the world, and whichever interpretation was correct will not impact my life henceforth. Tudor did win on that bloody battlefield, and there is no use in speculating and wishing.