The King's Pleasure, page 5
“Sleep,” she said. “Sleep well, my dear one.”
He said, “Just for a little. The crowds and the noise…I revive as quickly as I tire; I have great recuperative power. If I close my eyes and lie still for a few moments…all will be as it should be.”
“All is,” she assured him. She felt him go limp.
She lay awake long enough to think how like, in build and coloring, Arthur was to her brother Juan—though Juan, being older than she was, had never seemed like a child to her. And Juan had exhausted his strength, killed himself, over the business of getting Margaret with child. Father himself had said so, accusing Mother, anxious to blame in his first grief. That, she made up her mind, there and then, was not going to happen to Arthur. They would wait. With this decision made, being young and healthy and tired, she fell asleep herself.
They both slept until morning. Arthur, conscious of having failed in his duty, apologized, thus endearing himself to her even more. Poor child! She told him—and there was apology in her voice, too, of her overnight thoughts; she pleaded the case of Juan and Margaret: “We are married,” she said, “nothing could make us more so. Nothing. But we should wait.”
Nothing could have suited him better; the warm intimacy of the shared bed, the scent of her hair; the status of being a married man…and all without the thing which he did not yet want to do, did not yet feel able to do. A sister who was more than a sister.
“But they will know,” he said, “and mock me.”
“This is between ourselves; who could possibly know?”
“Those who make the bed,” he said miserably, aware that his comfortable, shrouded place was not the whole of the world. “I think…I have been told…they will look…there should be a little blood.”
Nobody had told her that. How astonishing!
“Yours? Or mine?” “Yours.”
“Those who come looking shall find what they seek,” she said. She pushed back the bedcurtains and reached for the knife which lay beside the dish, piled high with apples and pears on the side table. Not her hand, that would show; her foot. She jabbed at her heel, judging that to be the less sensitive part.
The first bedmaker to witness this proof of deflowering thought: “What a lot! But they’re different to us, them Spaniards!”
Arthur, completely reassured because his pretty princess understood him so well and was the other self he had always longed for, moved a farther step away from the reality of life, his position and his duty and threw himself into the part. When the first gentlemen, a bit thick-headed and bleary-eyed, cautiously opened the door of the marriage chamber, he called to them, before they did anything else, to bring him something to drink. “Marriage is thirsty work,” he said.
The Prince of Wales was expected to keep Christmas at Ludlow. Katharine had not been alone in remembering her brother Juan and Margaret. There was a suggestion that she should remain with her father-and mother-in-law and that Arthur should go to Ludlow alone. But that seemed a cruel decision to make; the two young people were so plainly in love; Arthur seemed no worse for his marital exertions. So they left for the west together and Arthur enjoyed showing Katharine the romantic, still almost untamed country whose title they bore, and she told him about Granada, Madrid, Corunna. He promised, with the wild west wind howling about Ludlow, to build her, one day, a palace the equal of the Alhambra, the tender plants, the orange and lemon trees all under glass.
Then, late in March, coming back from a meeting of the Council—a thing of pretence, a sop to Welsh pride, all major decisions being taken at Westminster—Arthur said that his head ached and that his throat was sore. It was nothing, he said, he would be better in the morning, but he allowed himself to be persuaded to go to bed, with a cup of hot, well-spiced wine to drink and a hot brick at his feet. He had a restless night, alternately shivering and sweating: in the morning his fever was high and his doctor bled him in the left foot and advised that he should have nothing to drink since liquid encouraged the sweating. Denied so much as a sip of water, Arthur still sweated and burned and shivered, and through an endless day Katharine sat by the bed, holding his hand, stroking his head, replacing the covers his tossing disarranged. The doctor padded in and out with a pill to be swallowed, a plaster to be applied; he bled the patient from his right arm; he was aware of his heavy responsibility, this sick boy was the King’s son; no effort must be spared. He wished that this had happened in London, where he could have called upon colleagues to share the burden—and if things went wrong, the blame. There was a doctor in Ludlow, but he himself had the sweating sickness, which had been rife in the town for some time.
In the evening Arthur asserted himself, perhaps for the first time in his life.
“I will not die of thirst,” he said in a low croaking voice. “I want some water, cold, straight from the well.”
“My lord, you must not…”
The Tudor temper flashed. “It is not for you to tell me what I must or must not. I want cold water and I want it now!”
Katharine herself held the cup for him, urging him to sip slowly, now and then moving the cup away, “Enough, darling, enough,” but his hot damp fingers closed on her wrist, “More. I could drink a gallon.”
When, two days later, the heir to the throne lay dead, the doctor attributed his death to the drinking of cold well water and if asked to give the true reason for the Prince’s demise, would have said, “his own wilfulness.” But such things could not be said to Kings, about the sons of Kings. He dismissed the whole business of the sweating sickness and the gulping of ice-cold water from his mind; the courier who set out on the 3rd of April to carry the news to London, was instructed to tell the bereaved father and mother that their son had died “of a consumption.”
Katharine was in no position to dispute the verdict; smitten down by the same sickness—her head had been aching and her throat very sore when she held the water to Arthur—but in a different form because she had more vitality and made a series of recoveries, suffered a series of relapses. She was still in bed and very weak when Arthur’s coffin, so light that it seemed to confirm the verdict of a consumption, a disease which wasted, was carried out of Ludlow and by easy stages to burial at Worcester. It was May, warm and sunny, when in her widow’s garb she set out for London and the world where the death of a boy had changed everything.
V
The King of England said, “Surely, the most preposterous suggestion ever made. It would take that fox, Ferdinand, to put forth such a proposal of bare-faced robbery. Is he mad? Send her home with that half of her dowry that has been paid; and pay her her dower rights as Dowager Princess of Wales; that is a third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall. And what the wedding cost me…” He thought furiously of the fountains spouting wine, the food for all comers, the prizes for the jousting, the complete refurbishing of Baynard’s Castle. And all for what? A marriage that had lasted four months. “To this,” he said, slapping his hand on the paper, “I shall never agree.”
Cardinal Morton, whose financial genius had made his King the richest monarch in Europe, said:
“I am inclined to think, Your Grace, that this proposition was not intended to be taken seriously. When Dr. Puebla took it from his pouch there was another paper—you know how they interfold—which he stuffed back hastily. And he looked very sly.”
“His eyes are so set that facing a loaf of bread he would look sly. If this is not a serious proposition, what is it? Apart from being something any brigand would blush at?”
“I can only think, Sire, that the intention was to shock so that another proposal, perhaps equally shocking, but in a different way, might seem acceptable. That is my guess. I cannot know.”
“If anything could be as shocking as this, but different, I should be interested, very interested, to see it. Have him in.”
Dr. Puebla came in. He had been the Spanish Ambassador to England for many years; he had negotiated the betrothal between Arthur and Katharine. He was a Jew and though it might seem strange to other people that Isabella, busy driving the Jews from Spain, should maintain one as her chosen representative in a country of growing importance, Dr. Puebla did not find it strange at all. When, because money was needed for other purposes, his salary was not paid, he never whined or grumbled; in a free busy town like London, any man who was conversant with law, could stand on his two feet and had the use of his tongue, could make a living. In lean times he had supported himself and his staff; and he had a modest little fortune, every penny of it honestly made, safely tucked away. And he was clever.
He came in, bowed very low to the King, less low but low enough to the Cardinal.
“This, Dr. Puebla,” Henry said, tapping the paper again, “is a ridiculous proposal.”
With a nice mingling of surprise and reproach in his tone, Puebla said:
“I am grieved that Your Grace should think so. It is in accord with the terms of the marriage settlement.”
“We then visualized a long marriage and the Princess’s revenue being spent in England, to the benefit of the country from which it derived.”
“The circumstances are sad indeed. But—if I may say so—it was not the fault of Princess Katharine that her married life should be of such short duration.”
“She is now sixteen years old. She could be drawing this vast income for the next fifty years!” The thought agitated him.
“The purpose of all marriage settlements is to provide for the female, whatever circumstances may arise.”
“She is a pretty girl; still young; very amiable. She will marry again,” Henry said brusquely. “You may inform your master that I—more generous than he—will excuse him the payment of the other half of her dowry. With that in her hand she will make some man a very desirable wife. And that is my last word on the subject.”
Dr. Puebla took a swift, almost imperceptible glance at Cardinal Morton’s face. The Cardinal gave a slight nod of the head. It is the last word.
“Men set such ridiculous store by virginity,” Dr. Puebla said plaintively. “The Princess is all that you say…but to put it coarsely, she is now secondhand. However, I will inform my master, and Queen Isabella, of Your Grace’s decision.”
He hurried away to the large, ancient, draughty house in the Strand where Katharine and her suite were now installed. It was called Durham House because it belonged to the Bishop of Durham who never used it, having other and more comfortable residences. Puebla hoped to avoid any meeting with Doña Elvira whom he disliked as much as she disliked him, and who was now back in full charge of the Princess and her household, and this he managed and made for the apartment of Father Alessandra, Katharine’s confessor who had been with her at Ludlow.
“It is,” he said, after a few preliminaries, “a question of Her Highness’s future. I suppose there could be no doubt that the marriage was consummated?”
“That surely is a question that should be put to her duenna. Once the Sacrament of Marriage has been performed marital acts are not subject to the confessional—and even if they were they would be under the seal.”
“But you know, as well as I do, that Doña Elvira would not tell me the time of day correctly.”
“Nor me. She has such a jealous and domineering disposition that she wishes to be Her Highness’s duenna, controller of her household, her confessor and Spanish Ambassador, all in one.”
The mutual enmity made for a feeling of fellowship between them.
“You cannot help me then? The question is of some importance.” The second paper in his pouch, unread by anyone but himself, was concerned with the importance.
“Naturally, I have heard things, in the ordinary way,” Father Alessandra said. “I do not go about with my eyes and ears shut. You may take it from me that the marriage was consummated.”
“Oh dear.”
“You sound displeased, Dr. Puebla.”
“It makes things a trifle more difficult. And the poor boy was so young, so frail.”
“He was married. He would recognize his duty. And so would the Princess.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Naturally.”
Dr. Puebla hurried away to write a letter to Spain, telling Ferdinand and Isabella that their first suggestion had been rejected out of hand; and that he had it on the best authority that the marriage between Katharine and Arthur had been consummated.
He had slightly exceeded his duty. Queen Isabella, like Father Alessandra, felt that such a question should be left to Doña Elvira.
Katharine had been glad enough to escape from the strict, sharp-tongued woman with her insistence upon strict Spanish etiquette. After the exceptionally free life at Ludlow as a married woman, it was hard to be obliged to return to tutelage and supervision. But Isabella in a letter expressing sympathy—though sorrow came to all—after urging her daughter to be brave and resigned to the will of God, had added that she was to place herself entirely in Doña Elvira’s hands and never to forget that a young widow must be even more discreet in her behavior than an unmarried girl.
“Your Highness,” Doña Elvira said one day. “There is something which I should know. Are you with child?”
Blushing, Katharine said, “No. Would that I were.” Sometimes it seemed to her that restraint had been mistaken; poor Arthur with so short a time to live; and a baby would have been something…“I know what you think, Doña Elvira…” The blush deepened. “Remember, I was ill. I was bled every day, sometimes twice. The rhythm was disturbed. I am sure that this month…”
“Did you and the late Prince of Wales live together as husband and wife?”
“How can you ask that? You know that we were hardly apart for an hour from the moment we were married until he died.” She was still in a weak, morbid state and her eyes filled with tears as she thought: Oh, poor little boy, poor little boy; he promised to build me a palace like the Alhambra; he had so many plans for the future.
“Then how can you be so sure that this disturbance of rhythm is due to your indisposition,” Doña Elvira asked, pressing her point home.
Katharine was now crying.
“He was so young; and not sturdy. I remembered my brother and what was said when he died. So…so we agreed to wait. It was his wish, as well as mine. We said a year…And now, notwithstanding, he is dead. And he was so kind and clever and amiable, the child would have been…like him…”
It would also have been heir to England and you as his mother, would have had status; your future would have been assured, Doña Elvira thought, almost annoyed by Katharine’s ignoring of the real situation. Unworldliness in others always affronted her. Still the information which she had extracted, was satisfactory; men set such a ridiculous value on virginity. She hastened to write to Queen Isabella. She wrote in good faith; after all virginity was a physical state, capable of investigation and proof or disproof and when Doña Elvira wrote, “She shared a bed with a sick boy and is still as virgin as when she came from the womb,” she was certain that she was writing the truth.
Katharine, immured behind the double screen of mourning and etiquette, almost her only visitor her mother-in-law, Queen Elizabeth, ailing and prematurely aged and heartbroken over Arthur’s death, totally ignorant or oblivious to what was going on in the wider world, was spared all knowledge of what was going on outside the walls of Durham House. She knew that her confessor, Father Alessandra, had been recalled but she did not know that he was recalled in disgrace because he was the originator of the story that she and Arthur had been man and wife in fact as well as name. Dr. Puebla—to Doña Elvira’s immense disgust—was not recalled; he was far too useful.
Nobody told Katharine anything; she lived in a muted world. Even to stand by the window and look into the Strand where life went on, busy, avid, noisy and colorful was, by Doña Elvira’s decree, ill-advised; a widow should show no interest in the outer world; or play cards; make or listen to any cheerful tune or even to seem to enjoy her food.
On the farther side of the double screen arrangements, the ultimate result of which none of the arrangers in their wildest dreams could have envisaged, were going on. The day came when Dr. Puebla produced, for the inspection of Henry and Cardinal Morton, Ferdinand’s and Isabella’s alternative suggestion—a marriage between Katharine and the boy who was now Prince of Wales.
“Agreed to,” Dr. Puebla said, touching the King in his most vulnerable spot, “this would ensure that the half-dowry, already paid, remained in England and also the revenues to which, by law, the Princess is entitled.”
“It would also involve a vast amount of legislation,” Henry said, tempted, but cautious. “She was Arthur’s wife. A Papal dispensation would be necessary.”
“Such a dispensation was obtained, Your Grace, when Princess Maria of Spain married the King of Portugal, formerly wedded to her sister who died.”
“She is almost seventeen years old. My boy is twelve. In view of what happened to my elder son I could not consent to any marriage for Harry until he is sixteen. Dr. Puebla, the ages are too disparate.”
“The Prince of Wales—the late Prince of Wales—did not die of overmuch exertion in the marital bed, Your Grace. Nor of the consumption often associated with such activities. I beg you to forgive me if I speak frankly. I have gone into this matter. He died of drinking water, cold from the well, when the sweating sickness was on him. And the marriage was never consummated. I admit that once I thought otherwise, but I was misled. The Princess is a virgin. She is by law entitled to the half-dowry, already paid; and to her revenues under the marriage settlement. A most enviable match for any man. Even—permit me to say it—for the Prince of Wales, so different from his brother, at twelve almost a man.”
He had hit Henry in his next most vulnerable spot. The King, who was also a father, had been almost ashamed of the pride he had felt, since poor Arthur’s death, in presenting Harry to the people. This boy never tired, was never upset by what he ate, was never shy or reticent; was able, it seemed, to endear himself without effort to great nobles, sober tradesmen and humble peasants alike. It was sad about Arthur, but he was safe in the keeping of God and perhaps it was as well that he was out of a world in which he had never seemed really at home; Harry was better equipped to assume the burden of monarchy which Henry nowadays sometimes felt to be heavy.
