“Ah! Catalina! My angel!”
Seeing me dressed in my wedding gown so overwhelmed my dear mother that tears came into her eyes, and she held out her arms to me.
We embraced—awkwardly, for the gown’s wide sleeves were an obstacle—and it was a moment or two before either of us could speak.
“You are so beautiful, little bride,” she said, her voice tender. “How I wish I could be with you on your wedding day.”
“Why not come with me then, not just to La Coruña but all the way to England?”
She shook her head slowly, sadness in her eyes. I saw then how pale she was, her face lined and drawn. I remembered that she was old, at least fifty years old, though no one at court ever mentioned her age in her presence. She could still ride, and walk briskly enough through the palace gardens. But she coughed ceaselessly during the winter, and her once vivid red-brown hair had long since gone gray.
“If only I could. I have waited as long as I dared to make this hard decision. Dr. Carriazo tells me I must rest, I am not strong enough for the rigors of traveling. I am often unwell,” she went on, “I am overcome at times by dizziness. If I ride in a swaying litter I feel ill.”
Church bells rang, we heard them as we sat side by side in the midst of the lush green garden. Suddenly I realized that I would have to say goodbye, not only to mother, but to the Alhambra, the lovely enclave of palaces I had come to know so well, with their brilliantly colored tiles and intricately carved ceilings, their mosaics and marble columns. This place where we had spent the past few years, the closest thing I had ever known to a home. Where would I ever find such loveliness again? How could I bear to leave it?
“I did not want to trouble you by telling you this earlier,” mother was saying. “I hoped my weakness would pass. Instead I am growing weaker. Losing Juan was hard, so very hard. Then I lost my Isabella—”
She could not go on. My oldest sister, mother’s namesake Isabella, had died three years earlier. Though she was much older than I was, nearly fifteen years older, I too mourned her passing and often pondered her fate.
Isabella had been sent away to Portugal to marry Prince Alfonso, who was the heir to his father’s throne. But the prince had died very soon after the wedding, and Isabella’s grief went on for years. I remembered her as a mournful, veiled recluse, living at our court but shut away from the world like a nun, growing thinner and more melancholy year after year. In her widowhood she had languished, until our father ordered her to marry again. Her new husband was Prince Alfonso’s cousin Manuel.
Yet once again fate turned against her—or, as the archbishop preferred to say, she was punished for her sins, though what those sins may have been I had no idea, for she was a grave and thoughtful woman, not at all inclined to vice or folly. She became pregnant and gave birth to a son. Within days she was dead of the terrible sickness that so often afflicts mothers as soon as their babies are born, and her little boy died too.
It was no wonder mother was ill. She carried a heavy burden in her heart, especially since my other two sisters, Juana and Maria, had gone away, Juana to her husband’s court in Burgundy and Maria to Portugal. I was the only one of her children left—and now I too was about to depart. It might well be, I thought with a pang, that we would never see each other again.
I did my best to recover my composure.
“The physician is right,” I told mother. “You need to rest, not to be jounced along on dusty roads. It is best that you stay here. I will miss your company, and think of you every hour.”
“We will pray for one another,” she promised, giving me one last kiss and managing to smile. “I know you will be brave, Catalina, and make me proud.”
“I will make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James at Compostela for you, and pray to the saint to make you well again.”
* * *
It was not long before I discovered that there was another reason, besides her illness, that had made mother decide not to travel with me.
We had hardly begun our journey when a very angry, red-faced Doña Elvira brought me news.
“That woman!” she sputtered. “He’s made that woman head of your traveling household!”
I was in no mood to be confronted with yet another trouble. I missed my mother terribly and Doña Elvira could be tiresome when in one of her moods. Still, in as calm a voice as I could manage, I said, “What woman?”
Instead of answering me directly, Doña Elvira cocked her head in the direction of a cluster of carts. I heard shouting, and saw that the entire traveling party had come to a halt.
“Tell the Count de Cabra to come to me,” I said to Doña Elvira. The count was in command of my escort, seventy knights and archers.
Looking flustered, Doña Elvira made me the briefest of bows and went in search of the commander. Before long he came riding toward us, proud and erect on his splendid mount, his crimson velvet doublet and feathered cap dusty from the road. He had been a valiant fighter in the wars against the Moors, his reputation for bravery was unmatched, so mother always said. But he was an old man. At that moment, a very impatient old man.
The shouting and commotion was growing louder.
The count rode up, dismounted with the agility of a much younger man, and threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation.
“Infanta Catalina, she is insisting on having her own escort! She says the king your father has appointed her to be head of your traveling household, and that she has his permission to do anything she likes.”
“Who says this?”
“The Lady Aldonza Ruiz de Iborre y Alemany!”
At once I understood why my mother, ill and weak as she was, had chosen not to travel with me. She did not want to contend with the Lady Aldonza, my father’s mistress and the most imperious woman at our court.
“Bring her to me at once.”
“But Infanta, she will not come.”
“Then she must be forced. Bring her at once!”
“Yes, Infanta.” He squared his shoulders, bowed to me, and prepared to do his duty—though I could see how crestfallen he was.
When at last Doña Aldonza, carried in her gold-trimmed litter, emerged from its curtains and stood before me, her dissatisfaction was plain to see. She stood, tall and proud, as aloof in her ripe beauty as she was imperious, looking down at me. Her slight bow and small, forced smile did nothing to soften the severity of her expression. She lifted one eyebrow critically as she waited for me to speak to her.
I took my time, as I had seen my mother do when faced with an overbearing nobleman or, more rarely, noblewoman.
“Doña Aldonza,” I said presently, “let it be understood that Doña Elvira Manuel is head of my traveling household, and will remain so.”
Doña Aldonza drew herself up to her full height.
“That is not your father’s wish.”
“Then let him convey his wish directly to me. Until he does, Doña Elvira will retain her post.”
Doña Aldonza made a huffing sound. A sound of contempt.
“You will obey my wishes in this, or you will be placed under guard, and sent back to Granada.”
For a moment I thought she would defy me. I saw a flash of pure malice in her black eyes. Instead, she drew from a pocket of her gown a folded document, which she proceeded to unfold. She handed it to me. I saw that it bore the royal seal.
“What is this?”
She did not answer, she merely continued to hold the document out. Incensed by her rudeness, but curious nonetheless, I took it from her. I unfolded it further and began to read.
“Be it known that my beloved daughter Maria Juana Ruiz de Iborre y Alemany, who is also the daughter of Doña Aldonza Ruiz de Iborre y Alemany, is appointed principal maid of honor to the Infanta Catalina. She is to accompany the Infanta Catalina to England, to serve her there. It is my wish that a man of due rank and fortune be found in England who will become her husband. The Infanta Catalina will provide a suitable dowry.”
&nbs
p; The document was signed with my father’s familiar signature, and beneath it his secretary had written his titles and the date—which was the day of my departure, May the twenty-first, in the Year of Our Lord 1501.
Try as I might, I could not hide my astonishment. I knew that Doña Aldonza was my father’s mistress, and had been for many years. It was whispered that she had borne his children, though at our Catholic court no one was permitted to say such things aloud, and I knew nothing of these whispered children, and had certainly never seen any of them.
Before I could react or speak, Doña Aldonza was walking rapidly toward her litter. With a flourish she pulled open the curtains and drew out a girl. A girl who looked to be about my own age.
She was dark, slim, with a supple, seductive body and masses of deep brown curling hair that flowed from under her cap. She had her mother’s height, and as Doña Aldonza took her by the hand and led her toward me I could see that she had more than a little of her mother’s acid manner as well.
I am a king’s daughter too, her dull brown eyes seemed to be saying. I am your equal, whatever you may think.
She is indeed my father’s daughter, I thought to myself. She has his eyes, set close together. His broad, fleshy cheeks. Even his full red lips. And she has her mother’s beauty and sensuality. No, I cannot doubt that she carries the blood of the royal house of Trastamara. But she is no infanta.
I looked from Maria Juana to Doña Aldonza and back again. I had seen a gleam of triumph in Doña Aldonza’s eyes, and the slight smile that crossed her lips. She thinks she has won, I said to myself. Aloud I said, “I will honor my father’s wishes. The Infanta of Spain can do no less.”
2
The scorching sun beat down with relentless force that summer, as our long caravan of carts and wagons, litters and horsemen wound along the narrow dirt roads that seemed to stretch endlessly before us. I felt well protected, and much honored; nearly every town we reached, it seemed, decorated its crooked streets with garlands of parched greenery and noisy crowds of townspeople greeted me with cries of “Long live the Infanta Catalina!” “Long live the Princess of Wales!”
Toasts were drunk to my health and fruitfulness, oxen were roasted whole and feasts prepared, even in the poorest towns. Officials in their long gowns and ceremonial cloaks made speeches, religious processions filed slowly past and children’s choirs sang. In each town prayers were offered for my forthcoming marriage to Prince Arthur, and I was presented with gifts: embroidered shawls and jars of unguent, prayer books, songbirds in cages. I thanked the townspeople as graciously as I could, and told Master Reveles to give out alms in generous measure.
At the end of each long, hot day, both Doña Elvira and Master Reveles assured me that I was doing well, that my mother would be proud of me.
I tried to ignore the pricking of the thorn in my side—the distressing complication caused by Doña Aldonza and her daughter. I announced that Maria Juana was appointed to be my principal maid of honor—much to the chagrin of my eleven other waiting maids—and Doña Aldonza continued to thrust herself forward in precedence over Doña Elvira. I heard harsh words exchanged between them from time to time, but did not intervene. It was too hot, and our progress too slow, to add more difficulties.
After many weeks we arrived at La Coruña, where the ships were waiting to take my traveling party to England. It was cooler in the port, a welcome wind arose to freshen the air and we all breathed more easily.
But we had no sooner embarked and set out from shore than the wind strengthened, a storm quickly blew up and our frail vessels were yawing dangerously in the rising seas.
At first we were almost too ill to be frightened. We clung to the masts, to the timbers, to one another as the ships rose and plunged like maddened bulls or rearing horses. I had never felt so sick. My stomach heaved. My head ached terribly. I was far too dizzy to stand. I tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes I felt even worse. Surely seasickness is God’s curse to mankind, I thought: and when I felt my worst, I wanted to die.
I wanted to die—but it was not long before I realized that we all might very well die, and soon, not because of illness but by drowning, the storm was so violent.
Then the terrible screaming began, and the desperate whinnying and bleating of the animals, the cries and prayers of the sailors—all of it soon lost in the wild roaring of the incessant wind.
There was no safety anywhere, but Doña Elvira did her best to lash me to the mast, and the Count de Cabra and his men locked arms and formed a ring around me and the other women, though our protectors slipped and slid with each sudden lurch and drop of the ship, and before long it was all they could do to find something or someone to cling to.
Barrels, trunks, chests of provisions went flying, striking everyone and everything in their path. I shuddered each time I heard a scream and saw a body, arms and legs flailing, go over the ship’s side and plunge into the foaming sea. Then, without warning, the wind tore a sail to shreds and as it fell to the deck, I heard a woman’s wail.
It was Doña Aldonza.
She had been struck on the head. She was bleeding. Staggering, she managed to reach out her hand toward me. Just then the ship began to rock and plunge, and she lost her footing. I could see that she was headed for the railing.
“Infanta! Infanta!” she screamed. “Save me, Infanta!”
I reached toward her, as far as I could, but I was tied where I was, and my arms were not long enough. Others tried to grasp Doña Aldonza’s arms, her long hair as it flew in the wind, the hem of her gown.
But she slipped by too quickly. In an instant she knew that she was lost. She gave a strangled cry, and then she began to curse.
“Damn you to hell, Infanta Catalina! And may all the devils drag you to your death!”
Her last words were only a wail, and then a moan, and I heard, over the shrieking of the wind, Maria Juana’s loud anguished scream as she saw her mother fall into the sea.
* * *
We were fortunate. We were saved. Our ship did not founder, and the first thing we did once we were back in port—we returned to La Coruña—was to go to the shrine of Santa Fe and give thanks.
We were saved, but many in my traveling party had been lost, not only Doña Aldonza but ten knights and nearly as many archers, some sailors, most of the livestock and some fine horses, along with nearly all of our provisions.
“It is an omen,” I overheard people whispering. “The infanta is not meant to go to England.”
I did my best to hush such superstitious talk. But it was hard to control; people love to gossip, and fear gives rise to all sorts of extravagant thoughts.
As it happened, just at the time we encountered the fearful storm, and then made our pilgrimage to the shrine of Santa Fe to give thanks, all the wells in the area went dry. They went dry, in fact, because the summer had been very hot and no rains had yet fallen. But many of my servants and officials, the memory of the storm and its damage, and especially of Doña Aldonza’s curse, fresh in their minds, chose to imagine that the dry wells were just one more omen of bad luck to come.
Maria Juana was among the most outspoken in spreading this poisonous talk. I knew that she blamed me for her mother’s death, though in truth I had tried to save her, and had done all I could. I made certain Maria Juana was there when I instructed my almoner Master Reveles to have a hundred masses said for the soul of Doña Aldonza, and to ensure that a suitable tombstone be inscribed in her memory.
Yet I was only too aware of the hostile looks Maria Juana gave me, the darkness in her eyes every time she glanced my way. Now that she was my principal maid of honor I had no choice but to speak to her, to give her instructions or answer her questions. She obeyed me, but unwillingly. When she spoke to me her words had a bitter edge.
As we prepared to embark once again for England I dreaded the voyage, knowing that it would bring fresh memories of all that we had suffered, and renewed fears, and that for Maria Juana, there would be ren
ewed blame and anger directed at me.
One thing I had saved from the destructive storm had been my small chest of keepsakes, containing jewels my mother had given me and miniatures of my sisters and brother, an amulet that had belonged to my grandmother and other precious things. In the chest were my letters from Prince Arthur.
On the night before we embarked for the second time I brought out these letters and read them several times. He said that he longed to see me, to embrace me. That he loved me with a burning love. How every time he thought of me the thought was sweet. He called me his dearest wife.
Reading the letters warmed me. Surely once we were in England, all would be well. All difficulties and friction would be put behind us. The prince would love me, and I him.
I tried to imagine him writing the letters, a tall slender blond boy with a winning smile. A boy looking forward to seeing me and embracing me. I brought to mind what Master Reveles had told me about my future husband, that he was amusing and that he wrote tales of chivalry. That my mother would like him.
With these happy thoughts I went to sleep, putting aside my awareness that we would embark the following afternoon, with the outgoing tide.
* * *
Our embarkation day was sunny. The sun was low, the horizon a blaze of red when we set out on calm seas. To my relief the seas remained calm for days, and I had almost ceased to worry when on the fourth day our pilot called out that the coast of England was in sight.
Eager for the first glimpse of my new home, I peered over the ship’s railing—only to see, instead of a verdant land, a line of gray clouds. Storm clouds.
“Not again,” I muttered to myself. “Please God, not again.”
But as we sailed on toward the land, lightning flashed and we heard the booming of thunder and soon afterward came drenching rain. The sea became unsettled, then broke into peaks and valleys and our ship began to creak and groan with each assault of the waves.
The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon Page 2