The Constant Princess

  “What if there is no end to them?” I once asked my mother as we leaned over the sun-warmed walls of the fort and watched the dispatch of a new group of Moors leaving the city of Granada, their baggage loaded on mules, the women weeping, the men with their heads bowed low, the flag of St. James now flying over the red fort where the crescent had rippled for seven centuries, the bells ringing for Mass where once horns had blown for heretic prayers. “What if now we have defeated these, they just go back to Africa and in another year, they come again?”

  “That is why you have to be brave, my Princess of Wales,” my mother had answered. “That is why you have to be ready to fight them whenever they come, wherever they come. This is war till the end of the world, till the end of time when God finally ends it. It will take many shapes. It will never cease. They will come again and again, and you will have to be ready in Wales as we will be ready in Spain. I bore you to be a fighting princess as I am a Queen Militant. Your father and I placed you in England as María is placed in Portugal, as Juana is placed with the Hapsburgs in the Netherlands. You are there to defend the lands of your husbands and to hold them in alliance with us. It is your task to make England ready and keep it safe. Make sure that you never fail your country, as your sisters must never fail theirs, as I have never failed mine.”

  Catalina was awakened in the early hours of the morning by Arthur gently pushing between her legs. Resentfully, she let him do as he wanted, knowing that this was the way to get a son and make the alliance secure. Some princesses, like her mother, had to fight their way in open warfare to secure their kingdom. Most princesses, like her, had to endure painful ordeals in private. It did not take long, and then he fell asleep. Catalina lay as still as a frozen stone in order not to wake him again.

  He did not stir until daybreak, when his grooms of the bedchamber rapped brightly on the door. He rose up with a slightly embarrassed “Good morning” to her and went out. They greeted him with cheers and marched him in triumph to his own rooms. Catalina heard him say, vulgarly, boastfully, “Gentlemen, this night I have been in Spain,” and heard the yell of laughter that applauded his joke. Her ladies came in with her gown and heard the men’s laughter. Doña Elvira raised her thin eyebrows to heaven at the manners of these English.

  “I don’t know what your mother would say,” Doña Elvira remarked.

  “She would say that words count less than God’s will, and God’s will has been done,” Catalina said firmly.

  It was not like this for my mother. She fell in love with my father on sight and she married him with great joy. When I grew older I began to understand that they felt a real desire for each other—it was not just a powerful partnership of a great king and queen. My father might take other women as his lovers; but he needed his wife, he could not be happy without her. And my mother could not even see another man. She was blind to anybody but my father. Alone, of all the courts in Europe, the court of Spain had no tradition of love play, of flirtation, of adoration of the queen in the practice of courtly love. It would have been a waste of time. My mother simply did not notice other men and when they sighed for her and said her eyes were as blue as the skies she simply laughed and said, “What nonsense,” and that was an end to it.

  When my parents had to be apart they wrote every day, he would not move one step without telling her of it, and asking for her advice. When he was in danger she hardly slept.

  He could not have got through the Sierra Nevada if she had not been sending him men and digging teams to level the road for him. No one else could have driven a road through there. He would have trusted no one else to support him, to hold the kingdom together as he pushed forwards. She could have conquered the mountains for no one else; he was the only one that could have attracted her support. What looked like a remarkable unity of two calculating players was deceptive—it was their passion which they played out on the political stage. She was a great queen because that was how she could evoke his desire. He was a great general in order to match her. It was their love, their lust, which drove them; almost as much as God.

  We are a passionate family. When Isabel, my sister, now with God, came back from Portugal a widow she swore that she had loved her husband so much that she would never take another. She had been with him for only six months but she said that without him, life had no meaning. Juana, my second sister, is so in love with her husband, Philip, that she cannot bear to let him out of her sight. When she learns that he is interested in another woman, she swears that she will poison her rival—she is quite mad with love for him. And my brother…my darling brother, Juan…simply died of love. He and his beautiful wife, Margot, were so passionate, so besotted with each other that his health failed; he was dead within six months of their wedding. Is there anything more tragic than a young man dying six months into his marriage? I come from passionate stock—but what about me? Shall I ever fall in love?

  Not with this clumsy boy, for a certainty. My early liking for him has quite melted away. He is too shy to speak to me; he mumbles and pretends he cannot think of the words. He forced me to command in the bedroom, and I am ashamed that I had to be the one to make the first move. He makes me into a woman without shame, a woman of the marketplace when I want to be wooed like a lady in a romance. But if I had not invited him—what could he have done? I feel a fool now, and I blame him for my embarrassment. “In Spain,” indeed! He would have got no closer than the Indies if I had not showed him how to do it. Stupid puppy.

  When I first saw him I thought he was as beautiful as a knight from the romances, like a troubadour, like a poet. I thought I could be like a lady in a tower and he could sing beneath my window and persuade me to love him. But although he has the looks of a poet he doesn’t have the wit. I can never get more than two words out of him, and I begin to feel that I demean myself in trying to please him.

  Of course, I will never forget that it is my duty to endure this youth, this Arthur. My hope is always for a child, and my destiny is to keep England safe against the Moors. I shall do that; whatever else happens, I shall be Queen of England and protect my two countries: the Spain of my birth and the England of my marriage.

  LONDON, WINTER 1501

  Arthur and Catalina, standing stiffly side by side on the royal barge but not exchanging so much as one word, led a great fleet of gaily painted barges downriver to Baynard’s Castle, which would be their London home for the next weeks. It was a huge, rectangular palace of a house overlooking the river, with gardens running down to the water’s edge. The mayor of London, the councilors, and all the court followed the royal barge and musicians played as the heirs to the throne took up residence in the heart of the City.

  Catalina noticed that the Scots envoys were much in attendance, negotiating the marriage of her new sister-in-law, Princess Margaret. King Henry was using his children as pawns in his game for power, as every king must do. Arthur had made the vital link with Spain, Margaret, though only twelve years old, would make Scotland into a friend, rather than the enemy that it had been for generations. Princess Mary also would be married, when her time came, either to the greatest enemy that the country faced or the greatest friend that they hoped to keep. Catalina was glad that she had known from childhood that she should be the next Queen of England. There had been no changes of policy and no shifting alliances. She had been Queen of England-to-be almost from birth. It made the separation from her home and from her family so much easier.

  She noticed that Arthur was very restrained in his greeting when he met the Scots lords at dinner at the Palace of Westminster.

  “The Scots are our most dangerous enemies,” Edward Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, told Catalina in whispered Castilian as they stood at the back of the hall waiting for the company to take their seats. “The king and the prince hope that this marriage will make them our friend forever, will bind the Scots to us. But it is hard for any of us to forget how they have constantly harried us. We have all been brought up to know that we have a most con
stant and malignant enemy to the north.”

  “Surely they are only a poor little kingdom,” she queried. “What harm can they do us?”

  “They always ally with France,” he told her. “Every time we have a war with France, they make an alliance and pour over our northern borders. And they may be small and poor, but they are the doorway for the terrible danger of France to invade us from the north. I think Your Grace knows from your own childhood that even a small country on your frontier can be a danger.”

  “Well, the Moors had only a small country at the end,” she observed. “My father always said that the Moors were like a disease. They might be a small irritation, but they were always there.”

  “The Scots are our plague,” he agreed. “Once every three years or so, they invade and make a little war, and we lose an acre of land or win it back again. And every summer they harry the border countries and steal what they cannot grow or make themselves. No northern farmer has ever been safe from them. The king is determined to have peace.”

  “Will they be kind to the Princess Margaret?”

  “In their own rough way.” He smiled. “Not as you have been welcomed, Infanta.”

  Catalina beamed in return. She knew that she was warmly welcomed in England. Londoners had taken the Spanish princess to their hearts. They liked the gaudy glamour of her train, the oddness of her dress, and they liked the way the princess always had a smile for a waiting crowd. Catalina had learned from her mother that the people are a greater power than an army of mercenaries, and she never turned her head away from a cheer. She always waved, she always smiled, and if they raised a great bellow of applause, she would even bob them a pretty little curtsey.

  She glanced over to where the Princess Margaret, a vain precocious girl, was smoothing down her dress and pushing back her headdress before going into the hall.

  “Soon you will be married and going away, as I have done,” Catalina remarked pleasantly in French. “I do hope it brings you happiness.”

  The younger girl looked at her boldly. “Not as you have done, for you have come to the finest kingdom in Europe, whereas I have to go far away into exile,” she said.

  “England may be fine to you, but it is still strange to me,” Catalina said, trying not to flare up at the rudeness of the girl. “And if you had seen my home in Spain, you would be surprised at how fine our palace is there.”

  “There is nowhere better than England,” Margaret said with the serene conviction of one of the spoiled Tudor children. “But it will be good to be queen. While you are still only a princess, I shall be queen. I shall be the equal of my mother.” She thought for a moment. “Indeed, I shall be the equal of your mother.”

  The color rushed into Catalina’s face. “You would never be the equal of my mother,” she snapped. “You are a fool to even say it.”

  Margaret gasped.

  “Now, now, Your Royal Highnesses,” the duke interrupted quickly. “Your father is ready to take his place. Will you please to follow him into the hall?”

  Margaret turned and flounced away from Catalina.

  “She is very young,” the duke said soothingly. “And although she would never admit to it, she is afraid to leave her mother and her father and go so far away.”

  “She has a lot to learn,” Catalina said through gritted teeth. “She should learn the manners of a queen if she is going to be one.” She turned to find Arthur at her side, ready to conduct her into the hall behind his parents.

  The royal family took their seats. The king and his two sons sat at the high table under the canopy of state, facing out over the hall, to their right sat the queen and the princesses. My Lady, the King’s Mother, Margaret Beaufort, was seated beside the king, between him and his wife.

  “Margaret and Catalina were having cross words as they came in,” she observed to him with grim satisfaction. “I thought that the Infanta would irritate our Princess Margaret. She cannot bear to have too much attention shown to another, and everyone makes such a fuss over Catalina.”

  “Margaret will soon be gone,” Henry said shortly. “Then she can have her own court, and her own honeymoon.”

  “Catalina has become the very center of the court,” his mother complained. “The palace is crowded out with people coming to watch her dine. Everyone wants to see her.”

  “She’s a novelty only, a seven-day wonder. And anyway, I want people to see her.”

  “She has charm of a sort,” the older woman noted. The groom of the ewer presented a golden bowl filled with scented water, and Lady Margaret dipped her fingertips and then wiped them on the napkin.

  “I think her very pleasing,” Henry said as he dried his own hands. “She went through the wedding without one wrong step, and the people like her.”

  His mother made a small dismissive gesture. “She is sick with her own vanity. She has not been brought up as I would bring up a child of mine. Her will has not been broken to obedience. She thinks that she is something special.”

  Henry glanced across at the princess. She had bent her head to listen to something being said by the youngest Tudor princess, Princess Mary; and he saw her smile and reply. “D’you know? I think she is something special,” he said.

  The celebrations continued for days and days, and then the court moved on to the new-built, glamorous palace of Richmond, set in a great and beautiful park. To Catalina, in a swirl of strange faces and introductions, it felt as if one wonderful joust and fete merged into another, with herself at the very center of it all, a queen as celebrated as any sultana with a country devoted to her amusement. But after a week the party was concluded with the king coming to the princess and telling her that it was time for her Spanish companions to go home.

  Catalina had always known that the little court which had accompanied her through storms and near shipwreck to present her to her new husband would leave her once the wedding was done and the first half of the dowry paid; but it was a gloomy couple of days while they packed their bags and said good-bye to the princess. She would be left with her small domestic household, her ladies, her chamberlain, her treasurer, and her immediate servants, but the rest of her entourage must leave. Even knowing as she did that this was the way of the world, that the wedding party always left after the wedding, did not make her feel any less bereft. She sent them with messages to everyone in Spain and with a letter for her mother.

  From her daughter, Catalina, Princess of Wales, to Her Royal

  Highness of Castile and Aragon, and most dearest Madre,

  Oh, Madre!

  As these ladies and gentlemen will tell you, the prince and I have a good house near the river. It is called Baynard’s Castle although it is not a castle but a palace and newly built. There are no bathhouses, for either ladies or men. I know what you are thinking. You cannot imagine it.

  Doña Elvira has had the blacksmith make a great cauldron which they heat up on the fire in the kitchen and six servingmen heave it to my room for my bath. Also, there are no pleasure gardens with flowers, no streams, no fountains, it is quite extraordinary. It all looks as if it is not yet built. At best, they have a tiny court which they call a knot garden where you can walk round and round until you are dizzy. The food is not good and the wine very sour. They eat nothing but preserved fruit and I believe they have never heard of vegetables.

  You must not think that I am complaining, I wanted you to know that even with these small difficulties I am content to be the princess. Prince Arthur is kind and considerate to me when we meet, which is generally at dinner. He has given me a very beautiful mare of Barbary stock mixed with English, and I ride her every day. The gentlemen of the court joust (but not the princes). My champion is often the Duke of Buckingham who is very kind to me; he advises me as to the court and tells me how to go on. We all often dine in the English style, men and women together. The women have their own rooms but men visitors and male servants come and go out of them as if they were public; there is no seclusion for women at all. The only
place I can be sure to be alone is if I lock myself in the necessary house—otherwise there are people everywhere.

  Queen Elizabeth, though very quiet, is very kind to me when we meet and I like being in her company. My Lady the King’s Mother is very cold, but I think she is like that with everyone except the king and the princes. She dotes on her son and grandsons. She rules the court as if she were queen herself. She is very devout and very serious. I am sure she is very admirable in every way.

  You will want to know if I am with child. There are no signs yet. You will want to know that I read my Bible or holy books for two hours every day, as you ordered, and that I go to Mass three times a day and I take Communion every Sunday also. Father Alessandro Geraldini is well, and as great a spiritual guide and advisor in England as he was in Spain, and I trust to him and to God to keep me strong in the faith to do God’s work in England as you do in Spain. Doña Elvira keeps my ladies in good order, and I obey her as I would you. María de Salinas is my best friend, here as at home, though nothing here is like Spain, and I cannot bear her to talk of home at all.

  I will be the princess that you want me to be. I shall not fail you or God. I will be queen, and I will defend England against the Moors.

  Please write to me soon and tell me how you are. You seemed so sad and low when I left. I hope that you are better now. I am sure that the darkness that you saw in your mother will pass over you, and not rest on your life as it did on hers. Surely God would not inflict sadness on you who has always been His favorite? I pray for you and for Father every day. I hear your voice in my head, advising me all the time. Please write soon to your daughter who loves you so much,