The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon

by Erickson, Carolly

  From the gleaming circlet on her abundant curling brown hair to the rubies at her throat to her jewel-encrusted belt and beringed fingers, Maria Juana wore a fortune in gems. Her gown too was costly and sparkled with silver trim. It was clear from her slight smile and the proud tilt of her head that she was very pleased with the stir she was creating.

  Maria Juana had been the cause of much talk and speculation at our court for years. It was said that she had been the mistress of King Francis himself, and before that the betrothed of the Seigneur de Courbaron and several others. She let it be known that her lovers had been lavishly generous to her and that their many gifts had made her wealthy, yet she still awaited a husband. A husband of high enough breeding to marry the daughter of the late King Ferdinand of Aragon. King Ferdinand who was, of course, my father as well.

  I urged Henry to send Maria Juana away, back to Spain—away anywhere, in fact. I told him she was causing me worry and that I must not be troubled in my condition. But in truth he was not much concerned with Maria Juana just then, or even with Bessie Blount (heaven be thanked!), nor was he more than mildly hopeful about my being able to present him with a prince by springtime. I had, after all, disappointed him often in the past, and besides, it was being said that he needed, not one, but two or three strong sons. And that I, at my age, could not be expected to provide them.

  No, just then my husband was preoccupied with something more vital: he was attempting to rid the realm of its highest-ranking nobleman, the redoubtable Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The nobleman most likely to lead a rebellion, should Henry’s throne become even weaker than it already was.

  Why was he doing this? Because, as he told me curtly, our daughter Mary could not possibly defend England as long as such a strong nobleman as Buckingham, with his Plantagenet descent, was there to remind all Henry’s subjects that a king, not a frail girl, was what they needed.

  “You know as well as I do that no mere woman can rule this realm,” Henry insisted, as he had often before, “or defend it against the armies of the French.” He was more than ever convinced of this after the tournament in the Golden Valley, in which there was much display but little actual force or power.

  I had to agree. Henry, splendid, dashing and strong as he was, a brilliant showman and horseman, had won the prize of the tourney, but in doing so had driven himself far past the limit of his strength. He had been sick after every joust, and in allowing himself to ride too hard, for too long, he had shown himself weak in judgment. This weakness was noticed. And the suave, handsome King Francis had commented on it. As had Buckingham and many of the other nobles who had taken part.

  No, Buckingham had to go. Henry was convinced of it. So the duke was accused of plotting the king’s death, and judged and condemned by his peers—who dared not make any other judgment, lest they go against the king’s wishes. The wretched duke was imprisoned in the Tower to await his execution.

  It was soon done. On a bright May morning in the Year of Our Lord 1521, Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was executed, and soon afterward the betrothal of Princess Mary to the French dauphin was broken, and a treaty with my nephew Charles was signed.

  “Mary will wed the emperor,” Henry announced, and though I felt sorrow at the thought that my lovely daughter would be sent far away to live at the imperial court, I realized that my husband was right. Mary needed a mighty husband, one who commanded armies of mercenaries, one possessed of immense wealth.

  Which was why, when Maria Juana made her appearance at our court, I felt a frisson of worry. Why had she chosen to come to England at all? Why not return to Spain, or seek her fortune in Italy, where there was so much turmoil and disarray, with warring armies contending for princely riches? The Medici of Florence were reputed to be wealthy beyond imagining; that family had spread its tentacles very wide, from the secular courts to the papal court of Rome. Maria Juana de Medici: that name had a welcome ring to it. Could she not find a husband in Florence, and leave England forever?

  Yet she stayed, and continued to inspire gossip and curiosity, and despite my urging, Henry did not remove her, not even when I took my chamber to await the birth of my child.

  * * *

  He was late in arriving, and so large, so heavy and active inside me, that for the last week before he burst out of my womb, I could not sleep at all.

  He exhausted me with his kicking and thumping, preventing me from resting, from gathering the strength I knew I would need to bring him into the world. My midwives did their best for me, giving me drinks to induce the sweat trance and pushing down on my swollen belly for hours on end. But the baby seemed unable to break free until after a last long, painful night he emerged, bloody and writhing, into the chief midwife’s waiting arms.

  I could hear him choking. I could see, by the firelight and the flickering light of the many candles around my groaning chair, that his face was red and his lips thick with mucus. Again and again the chief midwife slapped his plump buttocks, his back, even his red cheeks in an effort to get him to breathe. At last, in her desperation, she opened his mouth and reached down into his throat with one finger.

  “Breathe, little prince!” she commanded. But the baby’s eyes were closed and his tiny fists, which had been clenched with the effort he made to catch his breath, had gone limp.

  “Give him to me!” My voice was hoarse, my own throat tight as the helpless baby was handed to me, half naked, half wrapped in a swathe of stained linen. I opened his mouth and blew into it as forcefully as I could, as I remembered doing when Princess Mary was born. He choked, then coughed, and began to breathe. In a moment I put him to my breast and he suckled, strongly and evenly. Before long he opened his eyes and clenched his fists once again.

  All that day he appeared to thrive, suckling, whimpering, crying—though not very loudly—and sleeping. He lived for six days, then fainted, and did not recover. My husband, his own fists clenched and his face purple and contorted with anger, ordered five hundred masses to be offered for his soul.

  * * *

  I cried as I had never cried before, not even when my beloved mother died. The little prince had been my last child, I was in no doubt of that. I would never be able to have another.

  Now I was certain that I was not destined to bear a son to rule England. I was a failure, of no use to anyone. And indeed it was the death of the prince, the death of my last child, that brought everything to a head: our marriage, the succession to the throne, and England’s future.

  Even as I was recovering from my own physical ordeal—for the long, painful hours of labor had left me weak and spent—my husband was taking counsel with his astrologers and alchemists, and with the cardinal, who guided all our fates just then, and with his commanders.

  Henry’s plans had been disrupted. He had been determined to conquer France, then lead a grand army of crusading knights far to the east, to recapture the Holy City of Jerusalem. He had hinted at these ambitions when talking to me, but I had looked on them as nothing more than fancies, vain imaginings.

  “Men want more of everything, it is their nature,” I remembered hearing my old duenna Doña Elvira say. “The weak ones cringe and connive, but the strong ones dream great dreams of conquest and dominion. Of overcoming all odds. When their world is broken, they use all their might to restore it again.”

  Her words seemed to me very apt just at that time, for King Francis was struggling to recapture his conquests in Italy and my nephew Charles, with his stronger army and overflowing treasure chests, was pushing deeper and deeper into the lands once dominated by the church. In battle after battle the soldiers of the emperor were winning, and it was being said that England could not survive long in the churning cauldron of war.

  I saw clearly, or thought I did, how all that was happening was likely to affect me. I had become an encumbrance to Henry. I had given him a daughter, my dear Mary, but our daughter could not be expected to rule effectively on her own, no matter how capable she might be. Even
little Henry Fitzroy, once my husband’s hope for the future, was a weak and sickly child, thin and small for his age.

  What England needed was a strong, energetic heir to the throne. What Henry needed was a young and fertile wife who could provide such a prince. I was incapable, and I knew it. I mourned, and in my mourning, I prayed. And by the following Advent season, when I had turned these thoughts over in my mind again and again, and resigned myself as best I could to whatever future lay in store for me, I decided it was time I had yet another serious talk with my nephew Charles.

  Once again we met at Dover Castle, in the midst of a storm, the skies dark with rain and the sea flecked with gray-white foam. I had thought of taking Mary with me, then changed my mind. She was nearly six years old, quick-witted and sensitive. Her health was delicate, especially in autumn and winter, and I was not at all sure that I wanted her to be disturbed by what Charles and I needed to talk about. In the end I left her with her nursemaids, and came on alone.

  Alone, that is, with my gentleman usher Griffith Richards and three of my ladies-in-waiting, who sat quietly by as I waited for my nephew the emperor to arrive.

  But when Charles arrived, he was not alone. He had with him not only his attendants and his faithful hound, but Maria Juana! Maria Juana, demurely dressed, seemly in her manner, outwardly obedient, the image of a pious young virgin—which she certainly was not.

  I had been told that she had gone on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Walafrid, patron saint of unmarried women praying for husbands. But I had not been told the truth; in fact she had gone to Mechelen, where she knew she would find Charles and would be able to entrap him. Charles knew little of women, anyone could see that. I had no doubt that he was inept in the ways of love, most likely untutored even in lust. He remained an overgrown boy despite his high titles and undeniable authority. Maria Juana was seductive, and when I saw Charles approaching, with my half-sister walking sedately by his side, I could tell that she had disarmed him. My temper flared.

  “See who I have brought you, Aunt Catalina,” Charles said in a sheepish tone. “I found her weeping before a shrine, praying for a husband.”

  Maria Juana had deliberately deceived me, and had taken advantage of Charles’s trust. Was it possible he knew nothing of her brazen conquests, her illicit liaisons? Or was he so taken with her that he cared nothing for her past? Or was it possible that she had convinced him that with the right husband, she could mend her ways?

  It was all I could do to keep my composure. “So you decided not to visit the shrine of St. Walafrid after all,” I began, glaring at Maria Juana.

  “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I did. Then I heard of the wonder-working powers of St. Juliana, whose shrine is at Mechelen, and I hurried there to invoke her aid.”

  As Maria Juana was speaking, Charles nodded benignly, looking more like a fond, approving father or grandfather than a captivated young man.

  “I prayed to the saint most earnestly,” Maria Juana went on. “I confided to her that many years ago, our father King Ferdinand instructed you to arrange an honorable marriage for me, but that so far you had not done so.”

  “What’s this?” Charles interrupted. “I know nothing of this!” The hound, which had been sleeping at his master’s feet, sat up and began to bark excitedly, making Maria Juana draw back in fear.

  What she said was true. Years earlier, when I first came to England, my father had told me to find a husband for Maria Juana, and I never had. But my father was long dead.

  “Old instructions from an old man,” I said aloud. “I was a girl then, on my way to a new country and a husband I had never met. Poor Arthur,” I added. “He was never very strong. He was so ill—”

  The hound continued to bark. Charles looked pale.

  “With your permission, dear Aunt Catalina, I must rest— The seas were rough—my stomach—” He put his hands to his belly and belched loudly.

  “A proper English belch,” I remarked, and smiled at him. I suddenly felt empathy for this boy, still so young, apt to be taken advantage of by everyone.

  He did look pale and ill, yet I had no doubt that dealing with Maria Juana and her wiles had worn him down. I reminded myself that much rested on this young man’s shoulders—and could not help but notice that while he seemed astute beyond his years in some ways, in others he was as innocent as a babe.

  “My gentleman usher will provide what you need,” I told him in a gentler tone, and summoning Griffith Richards, I put an end to our talk, leaving Maria Juana to find her own lodging—which I prayed would not be with my nephew.

  * * *

  It was not until the evening of the following day that Charles and I spoke again, this time without the disturbing presence of Maria Juana. The December night was cold and wet. We sat close to the blazing hearth, looking out toward the sea as the last pale rays of sunset light were fading.

  He broke in on my contemplative mood, to tell me, somewhat abruptly, that he had made up his mind to marry Maria Juana.

  “My counselors advise against this marriage,” he told me. “They want me to choose between Isabella of Portugal and the French princess.”

  “Or Princess Mary,” I was quick to interject. “Who would bring you all the lands and wealth of England.”

  “And who is a child of five,” he said.

  “Nearly six, and such a pretty, intelligent, sweet-natured girl.”

  “She comes from a line of women unable to bear strong sons. I require a fruitful empress.”

  “But not an unsullied, virginal one, it would seem.”

  He smiled, and drank deeply from his wine glass.

  “Maria Juana pleases me,” he said simply. “She makes no demands. She has been my companion for over a year.” He set down his glass and looked at me. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t marry her.”

  He paused, then went on. “Your daughter is my cousin, in a close degree of affinity. If I chose to make her my wife, the canon lawyers would require a dispensation from the Holy Father in Rome. No such dispensation would be necessary if I take Maria Juana to wife. We are not close in blood—”

  “She is your grandfather’s bastard!” I blurted out.

  “So she never ceases to remind me. And she also reminds me that you caused her mother’s death.”

  I shook my head. “I never did. No matter how often she repeats that lie, it is not true. I swear it on the Blood of Our Lord.” It was as stern a denial as I had ever made.

  The hearth fire crackled. Eventually I went on.

  “You must not be distracted by spiteful gossip, Charles. Or led astray by lowborn temptresses. Maria Juana is not fit to become your consort. You must marry a princess of the blood royal. And then, if you feel the prickings of lust, you will do as my husband Henry does, and find your pleasures among the women and girls of your court.

  “I am only telling you what your father and mother would say to you, if they were still able to advise you,” I added after a moment. But Charles merely went on sitting quietly, now and then looking over at me, his expression thoughtful, and drinking his wine.

  “Do you know,” I began again after a time, “my husband Henry does not travel aboard the Catherine Pleasaunce as he once did. It was named for me. There was a time when he would not board any other vessel—except perhaps the Catherine Fortileza, which was also named for me. He ordered that ship made shortly after our marriage. He paid me honor then. Now—”

  “It has been rumored he means to put you aside,” was Charles’s abrupt remark. “Best to face it, Aunt Catherine. I doubt whether it can be avoided. Not even by the Holy Father in Rome, Pope Adrian, whose election I took such pains and cost to ensure.”

  It was true. My nephew had used all his considerable influence, and—so it was said—a great deal of gold to persuade the College of Cardinals in Rome to elect his former tutor Adrian of Utrecht pope. It was a strategy Cardinal Wolsey would never forgive, as he coveted the office of Bishop of Rome for himself.

 
; Charles stood then, and stretched out his hands to the hearth fire. “No, I doubt it very much. But should the worst happen, I will do my utmost to protect you—and to preserve the honor of our family. I cannot marry Princess Mary, she is too young and I must have an heir as soon as possible.”

  “But surely—” I began, only to be silenced by my nephew’s shaking head.

  “If King Henry means to put you aside and take a younger wife,” he said, “then nothing on earth will persuade him otherwise. Once he makes up his mind, he will not change it. Not for all the gold in the Americas, or all the might of Spain.”

  12

  No matter how hard I tried, I could not put my nephew’s words out of my mind. Hours passed, and still his pronouncement lingered, making it impossible for me to think of anything else. That night I knelt on my prie-dieu, and asked for relief from the nagging worry that kept me from sleep.

  “When he makes up his mind,” Charles had said of my husband, “he will not change it. Not for all the gold in the Americas, or all the might of Spain.”

  His voice, hoarse and rough as always, held a note of warning. He seemed to be saying that there was no way I could escape a foredoomed future. My every instinct told me that I faced a major obstacle, one that might prove to defeat me.

  The following afternoon I had a most unwelcome visitor.

  “The Lady Maria Juana Ruiz de Iborre y Alemany!”

  I looked up, to see my gentleman usher Griffith Richards standing on the threshold of my apartments, with Maria Juana behind him.

  I hesitated. I wanted to send her away. Yet her presence in my apartments was a challenge, and I felt myself rising to the challenge. As a warrior would. As my mother, the great Queen Isabella, would have. (Oh, how I missed her at such times!)

  I stood, my back straight, my head held high—all too aware, even as I did so, that I was a good deal shorter than Maria Juana, and that I did not look my best. I bore the marks of fatigue and worry, and of my lack of sleep the night before. Steeling myself, I told my gentleman usher to admit my half-sister.