Patience, Princess Catherine

by Carolyn Meyer

  My dear lady princess Catalina: I have entrusted this letter to my loyal friend, Charles Brandon, who has come to you dressed in beggar's rags. Many times in the months past, forbidden by my father, the king, to be in your presence, I have wished to assure you that it is not I who is the cause of your distress. I know no proper words with which to continue this letter other than to say that I am your obedient servant, Henry, prince of Wales.

  I read the letter several times over, kissed it, and placed it in my prayer book for safe keeping. I did not know what it meant, or if anything in my life would change. But at least I had a glimmer of hope, and one in which I trusted.

  The entire court watched as King Henry's health declined through the weeks of spring. He proclaimed the customary pardon for criminals. He stopped appearing at court, and his physicians reported that he was coughing up blood. When he did not leave his bedchamber, we knew that death was drawing nigh.

  Prince Henry would soon become the new king. My future depended upon him. I reread his brief letter and told myself that Henry cared for me. Perhaps he even loved me as a brother loves his dear sister. But did he wish to have me as his wife? Or would he choose someone else?

  I alone clung to the belief that Prince Henry would choose to marry me. I could not allow myself to believe otherwise.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Broken Spell

  Richmond Palace, April 1509

  Prince Henry knelt by his father's bedside, at times praying, at times simply holding the sick man's bony hand. The king's cheeks were sunken, his eyes hollow, as though his face were already a death mask.

  The royal bedchamber was crowded with physicians and astrologers, priests and courtiers, their eyes fixed upon the king, ears straining for any last words from the dying monarch. They heard only the rattling cough, the strangled gasps.

  For twenty-four hours Henry watched the king's labored breathing, the tortured chest rising and falling in the struggle against the sharp assaults of death. His father had not spoken for some time. Knowing that it would soon be over, Henry wished now that he and his father had not exchanged so many harsh words, had not allowed disagreements to turn into bitter arguments. Soon enough the old Ring's final fight would end, and young Henry would become the new king. His father was leaving him a peaceful kingdom, enormous power, and untold wealth.

  The king's lips quivered and his eyelids fluttered open. The gray eyes stared at Prince Henry. Did his father recognize him?

  "Send them away," the king whispered.

  The prince turned to face those who crowded into the bedchamber. "Leave us!" he said in his most commanding tone. "The king wishes it."

  They shuffled reluctantly toward the door, afraid of missing the moment at which the king's breath expired and his spirit departed his body. The door closed, and Prince Henry was alone with his father. The king worked to form words. Henry placed his ear close to the lips of the dying man. "What is it, my lord? Tell me."

  "Marry her," he whispered.

  "Marry whom?" asked the prince. "Whom should I make my wife?"

  "You—know—who—"gasped the king. A ghost of a smile passed his lips.

  These were his last words. The struggle was over. Prince Henry was free.

  WORD OF THE KING'S DEATH SPREAD QUICKLY DURING the early morning hours of the twenty-first of April. I heard the slow, mournful tolling of bells and immediately understood their meaning. I dressed quickly in my black gown, summoned Maria and Inez, and hurried to the chapel royal where prayers for the dead were already being chanted.

  Head bowed and hands folded in prayer, I glanced around furtively for some sign of Henry. Presently he entered the chapel, his grandmother leaning on his arm. The frail old countess appeared almost joyful, radiant in the knowledge that her only child had taken his place among the angels.

  I confess that I found no tears to shed for the dead king, who had made my past seven years a misery. Still, I prayed for God's mercy upon his wretched soul.

  I was keenly aware of the covert glances of others as I left the chapel royal and returned to my chambers, accompanied by Fray Diego and my ladies. I had scarcely removed my veil when there was a knock at the door and a page's voice rang out, "Announcing His Highness, King Henry the Eighth!"

  For a moment I was too surprised to act. My ladies' eyes grew large with wonder. My confessor frowned.

  The knock and the announcement were repeated. My heart beating erratically, I collected my wits, stepped to the door, and opened it myself.

  Robed in mourning garments that were nonetheless richly furred and trimmed in jewels, the young king filled the doorway with his splendor. "You are dismissed," he said. His words were addressed to my attendants, but his blue eyes were fixed upon mine. Fray Diego and my ladies threw me furtive looks and hurried away. I was alone with the new King Henry.

  Keenly aware of my well-worn gown—the "new" gown that was no longer new—I swept him a deep curtsy. "Your Grace," I murmured, my eyes lowered, my gaze fixed upon his velvet slippers.

  "Catalina," he said softly.

  When I dared to raise my eyes, he was smiling. "Yes, my lord," I replied, taking the hand he offered and hoping that he could not detect the trembling in mine.

  "It would please me greatly if you would consent to be my wife," he said gravely.

  Happiness squeezed the breath from my chest, and tears of joy threatened to overflow. But I met his eyes and said more calmly than I felt, "I consent, my lord, with all my heart."

  Henry dropped to his knees. "Catalina," he said earnestly, his eyes moist and shining, "I do solemnly pledge to you my love and my loyalty, unto death." With these words he slipped a magnificent ruby ring upon my finger and pressed his lips upon my hand.

  The king rose to his feet—how tall he was!—and soon he was gone, leaving me standing there, giddy with delight. I have done it!

  Before I called my ladies to tell them the news, I seized parchment and quill and dashed off a short note to my father: The game is ours. With the help of God, I had persevered through seven long years of tribulation, and I had won! The evil spell under which I had lived for so long had at last been broken.

  There was much to be accomplished in the weeks that followed. Henry relied upon me to help him with plans for his father's funeral. As it became obvious that I was the new king's chosen bride, people at court who had ignored me or insulted me over the years were suddenly treating me with the kind of deference I had deserved all along. And I did revel in that!

  Perhaps the most disconcerted by this sudden turn of events was Fuensalida. My relationship with the ambassador had become badly strained, and when he requested an audience I granted it reluctantly. So certain had he been that the new king would wed someone else that he now seemed almost in a daze. In no mood to punish anyone, I accepted his explanation that he had only wished to help me.

  For a fortnight the old king's body lay in state in the Great Hall of Richmond Palace. It made its final earthly journey on the tenth of May, when the coffin was carried in solemn procession to Westminster Abbey. Following the requiem mass, the body of King Henry VII was laid to rest next to Queen Elizabeth's in the vault beneath the unfinished chapel he had recently ordered built.

  Into the hushed gloom of the abbey, crowded with noble families from every part of the kingdom, strode a herald of the Knights of the Bath. "Long live Henry the Eighth, king of England!" cried the herald, and the company responded with a ringing shout, "Long live Henry the Eighth, king of England!" My voice, choked with emotion, joined the others: "Long live Henry the Eighth, king of England!"

  One era had ended and another begun for England, and for me as well.

  Henry set the date of his coronation for Midsummer Day, the twenty-fourth of June, only six weeks after the funeral. I was moved with my little suite to chambers at Richmond more fitting for the future queen. Henry fell into the comfortable habit of coming by to visit me unannounced nearly every day. He always insisted that we speak in private. Fr
ay Diego disapproved—to meet with my future husband without the presence of my confessor was a sin. I ignored him. Then the friar voiced a far greater objection.

  "It is my religious duty, madam, to warn you: This marriage does not conform to the laws of the church. Divine scripture puts forth in the twentieth chapter of Leviticus, 'If a man shall take his brother's wife, it is an unclean thing: He hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall bear their sin; they shall die childless.'"

  A chill ran through me, but I shook it off. "Pope Julius granted a dispensation. The marriage was not consummated. I am still pure."

  The friar continued as though I had not spoken. "I believe that the dispensation was granted in error, and that this new marriage will not be valid. A mortal sin, my lady."

  It was the final straw! I made up my mind to have no more of Fray Diego's interference.

  "You have been my confessor for two years, good friar," I said. "And I look forward to maintaining that relationship in the years to come. But I no longer need you to advise me on what is a sin and what is not. When in future I desire your advice, I shall ask for it."

  The friar's lips were set in an unyielding line as he saw his authority over me slipping away. But I was mistress now, and I found it remarkably easy to assert my new power though not so easy to forget his words: This marriage will not be valid.

  I turned my attention to my little court. Henry had sent me a generous gift of money, and from this treasury I gave sums to those loyal retainers who had remained with me during the long years of misery and uncertainty. Next, I called to my service an old friend, Lady Margaret Pole. I had not seen her since my departure from Ludlow, though we had exchanged occasional letters and I knew of the death of her husband and the straitened circumstances in which the widow found herself. Our reunion was bittersweet, both of us shedding tears.

  When we were seated, I called for spiced wine. Servants appeared with platters of confits, to which we helped ourselves. I marveled—it had been far too long since I had had such treats served in my own apartments.

  "Eight years ago I left my home in Spain," I reminded my friend, "and I have had just one new gown in all that time!" That gown—ordered for Henry's fourteenth birthday celebration, to which I was then not invited—was now so badly worn that I had called upon Buckingham's sister to lend me something to wear to the old king's funeral. "I need new gowns, robes, chemises, shifts, kirtles, petticoats, slippers, everything! I scarcely know where to begin, Lady Margaret. Can you help me find silkwomen, embroiderers, seamstresses, glove makers, and furriers?"

  Lady Margaret beamed at me fondly. "And a wedding gown, my lady? Should that not be in the plans as well?"

  I felt myself blush. "Yes, that too," I agreed, fingering the diamond pendant I now wore. Nearly every day a new jewel arrived from the royal treasury, sent by Henry.

  We planned to be married secretly, well before the coronation, for the king wanted me by his side, crowned when he was crowned. I said no more, but Lady Margaret smiled knowingly. "It is well to be prepared," she said, her fine brows arched, and I agreed.

  On the tenth of June Henry and I boarded the royal barge at Richmond. Under a sky as blue as any I remembered in Spain, we swept beneath London Bridge on the sparkling surface of the Thames. The white carpet of swans parted for us. I had made this river journey several times, but never had my heart been so filled with joy. Minstrels played for our pleasure, and Henry borrowed a lute and sang for me one of the little Spanish songs I had taught him when he was still a boy. Listening to his sweet voice, the years between then and now fell away, and my heart lifted and sang with his.

  At Greenwich, I was escorted to the queen's apartments, where I dined alone, attended by a few servitors. Early the next morning, after matins and a breakfast I was far too nervous to eat, my maidservants dressed me in a simple gown of pure white silk that opened upon a white petticoat trimmed in gold lace.

  My bridegroom arrived in a suit of white velvet and led me out of the palace and into the morning sunshine. We walked solemnly—though I felt like dancing!—to the chapel of the Observant Friars by the palace walls, where the archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, awaited our arrival.

  There were no banquets after the ceremony, though we both took pleasure in feasting and dancing, and no jousting, though Henry enjoyed the tiltyards more than any other place. And—thanks be to God!—there was no official bedding ceremony, no blessing of the matrimonial chamber, only the complete privacy we both desired.

  That night we became not only man and wife, but lovers. Henry found me a maiden untouched.

  And thus began our married life.

  Within days word began to spread of our marriage, and I found to my delight that everyone I encountered seemed as pleased as I that the wedding had taken place at last.

  According to custom, on the night before our coronation my husband (how I loved to say those words: my husband ) and I slept at the ancient Tower of London. The next morning, to the joyous pealing of bells from every belfry in the city, we made our way to Westminster Abbey. My white satin gown set off to advantage my auburn hair that fell nearly to my waist. Bedecked in many of the jewels Henry had given me, I rode in a litter between two palfreys who were trapped to the ground in gorgeous brocades. I was surrounded by ladies of the court dressed in cloth of gold and silver or in brightly colored velvets.

  Exuberantly cheering throngs of simple folk crowded the narrow streets. Members of the artisans' guilds stood rank upon rank. Clergymen of every church and chapel were arrayed in their finest copes, their jeweled crosses carried before them.

  The greatest cheers went up for the handsome young king dressed in robes of scarlet velvet furred with ermine. His doublet of gold was adorned with diamonds and other precious stones, and across his chest he wore a baldric set with enormous rubies.

  "Long live King Henry the Eighth!" shouted the people until they must have been hoarse. "Long live Queen Catherine!"

  I turned to Lady Margaret Pole, who rode beside me. "I have another favor to ask of you, dear friend," I said.

  "Only ask it, my lady."

  "Please," I said, "will you teach me to speak English?"

  The ceremonies went on for many hours. The celebrations that followed would have continued for many days, had it not been for the death of the king's grandmother, the countess of Richmond and Derby, reminding us of the fate that awaits us all.

  The months of summer were without doubt the happiest of my life. After years of being kept in seclusion by the will of our fathers, Henry and I gave ourselves up to pleasure. We hunted together, ate and drank together, danced together, and at night retired to our blissful bed.

  By the first cool days of autumn, I knew that I was with child. My cup of happiness was overflowing. Henry and I prayed fervently for the birth of a son to become England's next king. That would make our joy complete.

  Epilogue

  Buckden Towers, Huntingdonshire, England December 1533

  THE POUNDING AT MY DOOR HAS RESUMED. CHARLES Brandon, duke of Suffolk, has returned, shouting more threats to drag me away, promising that worse is yet to come. I refuse to answer him. Elsewhere in the castle a horrific racket is taking place, as though it were under siege, I ignore it. Brandon's men have packed up nearly everything that can be moved—beds, tables, tapestries. From my latticed window I watch as carts and men slink away.

  For now, at least, Brandon has given up.

  The country folk, assured that I am safe when I wave to them, are slowly returning to their cottages, leaving behind their humble gifts of bread and cheese and preserved meat.

  There is much more to my story of the twenty-four years of marriage to King Henry, the great love of my life, a marriage that Henry has declared at an end. I am weary now, and in need of rest. There are others who will continue my story.

  I have not relented, and I shall not. I have not submitted, and I shall not. Brandon has given up, but I know that the king has not. I am stubbo
rn not for my own sake, but for the sake of my daughter, Mary, who shall, if there be a just God, one day rule this country as its rightful queen. I sign this

  Catherine, the Queen

  31 December 1533

  Historical Note

  CATHERINE OF ARAGON HAD ENDURED AND WON. HER next test of endurance and courage was her duty—and desire—to provide Henry and the realm with a male heir.

  Catherine's first pregnancy, coming soon after her wedding and coronation, ended before its time in the stillbirth of a daughter. She had barely recovered when she became pregnant once again. On the first of December 1510, she made her formal withdrawal from court. Following detailed instructions laid down years before by the countess of Richmond and Derby for Henry's mother, Elizabeth of York, Catherine remained secluded with her ladies in a darkened chamber hung with tapestries that covered the windows and doors, as well as walls and ceilings.

  Soon after midnight on New Year's Day of 1511 she gave birth to a fine, healthy boy. Henry came to her with his eyes shining with love and pride, and all of England celebrated the birth of a prince. But joy was brief. While the royal couple and their court were at Westminster in February, word came from Richmond that the infant had sickened and died. For months Catherine remained withdrawn in a somber state, praying, fasting, and weeping.

  This dark time became even darker when Catherine learned that her husband had taken a mistress. Her love for him had grown and deepened during their two years of marriage, and though he showed her great respect, seeking her company and her counsel, it was plain that his ardor had cooled. But Henry continued to visit Catherine's bed in an effort to produce a son. Time after time she conceived; time after time she miscarried or the infant was stillborn. Then, on the eighteenth of February, 1516, in the seventh year of marriage, Catherine delivered a healthy, living child—a daughter. They named her Mary, and though they rejoiced in her birth, Mary could not fill the need for a male heir.