Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All, Page 2

  His cold lips touched my cheek.

  I forced a smile.

  Encouraged, he pecked at my chin, my ear, my bare neck.

  I tugged my nightgown upwards.

  With a grunt of effort, Arthur rolled on top of me. He lay there, unmoving.

  No, I thought, this was not the act Isabella had described—nor the one Juana had giggled about.

  Then Arthur coughed. And coughed again. Wheezing, gasping for breath, he jerked upright. A paroxysm seized him. His shoulders heaved and a bright spot of blood dribbled down his chin. As I watched, another spot trembled on his lower lip for the briefest of moments before dropping onto my breast. Then he fell back onto his pillows.

  I lay in the darkness and listened to his rasping breath. Twelve years of betrothal. The long journey to a strange country. Marriage to a boy I did not know. All had been for a single purpose, to join the royal blood of Spain and England as Dios intended. I could only accomplish this by bearing sons, and yet…

  This is but one night, I reminded myself. There will be hundreds, thousands more. There is plenty of time for me to fulfil my destiny.

  APRIL 1502

  The priest lowered his head and prayed. “Heavenly Father, we humbly beseech Thee to have mercy on the soul of Thy servant Arthur, who hast on this second day of April departed this world. Take him, Lord, into Thy keeping.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  Shivering, I pulled my furs tighter around me. It was forever cold at Ludlow Castle, especially here in the chapel where Arthur’s body lay upon the bier. Just weeks after our wedding, the King had commanded that we set off from London to distant, frozen Wales. Por Dios, but Ludlow Castle was a damp and draughty place. Arthur’s weak lungs proved no match for the cold winds that buffeted the heavy, grey towers, or the foul rain that seeped in under the wooden doors.

  I looked down at the shrouded body. No remedies—no leeches, nor oils, nor even the charred heart of a sparrow placed upon his chest—had kept my husband from taking his last, wheezing breath.

  My husband, who had not been a true husband.

  Although we had lived together for six months, I had spent but five nights in Arthur’s bed. Each of those times, I had waited, hopeful and expectant. But Arthur never touched me. Instead, he slept fitfully, coughing and sweating despite the castle’s winter chill.

  I looked again upon my husband’s body, and a sob caught in my throat. Yesterday, I had been the Princess of Wales and future Queen of England. Today, I was next to nothing. A dowager princess. A widow to be cast aside and forgotten.

  Now young Henry would become Prince of Wales and eventually King.

  And his wife, when he married, would be the next Queen of England.

  I shook my head, disbelieving. Had I not been raised to be Princess of Wales and then Queen of England? It was my destiny. God’s promise. But how could I fulfil that destiny if Arthur was no more?

  Dropping to my knees, I stretched forwards and pressed my forehead to the cold stone floor. “Santo Padre, if You are testing me, then see! I prostrate myself before You. I beg for Your benevolence. I beg for Your blessing. I beg that Your will…and mine…be done.”

  AUGUST 1502

  My mother sent instructions to Durham House—the manor to which I had been removed, isolated from court, after Arthur died. My ladies, she commanded, should begin packing immediately. A fleet of Spanish ships was on its way back from Flanders. It would pick me up at an English port. I was to be ready to board as soon as they dropped anchor.

  I crumpled her letter. I knew God required that I resign myself and accept this new position in life He had given me. But, O Dios, was I truly to go home to Spain and live out my days in quiet widowhood?

  And then…un milagro, a miracle, like the coming of spring after a cold, grey winter.

  Arthur and Henry’s father, the King of England, desired me to stay in his country. He desired a new marriage and a revived alliance with Spain. He desired, after all, the mingling of Aragon and Tudor blood.

  No matter that Prince Henry was a child of eleven, all boasting and boyishness.

  No matter that I was a sixteen-year-old woman, ripe for love.

  You shall remain where you are, read my mother’s next missive, and you shall be married to the prince three years hence, when he is fourteen.

  “But how can this be?” asked my lady Agnes de Vanegas. We were walking in the garden when I told her the news. Her brow wrinkled. “It is a sin for a man to marry his brother’s wife. La Biblia says so.”

  María leaned forwards, wearing a knowing look. “Not if the wife was not truly a wife. Not if she remained untouched.”

  Agnes covered her mouth in surprise.

  “Already, His Holiness in Rome has granted us a dispensation,” I told them.

  At mention of the Pope, my ladies crossed themselves. As the infallible head of the Roman Catholic Church—the one true faith—only the Pope can dispense with any moral or legal obstacles to the sacramento del matrimonio, the sacrament of marriage. That is because he is God’s mouthpiece on earth. The Lord speaks directly into his ear and the words come unchanged from his lips. If the Pope said Henry and I could marry, it was because God had said so. The Pope’s dispensation made our union legal.

  Legal beyond all question.

  I shivered at the working of Dios in my life. He had whispered my name in the Pope’s ear. He had made right what was wrong. Could I doubt any longer that I was indeed favoured by Him? Blessed by Him? Chosen by Him for the greatest of things?

  I would once again be the Princess of Wales.

  And the future Queen of England.

  ¡Un milagro!

  SEPTEMBER 1502–APRIL 1509

  It was weary work, the waiting. I reminded myself that I must remain constant and uncomplaining. But there were times when my patience faltered. Dios, ¿cuánto más? I asked. How much longer, Lord?

  Seven years.

  That was how long I waited while my closefisted father and Henry’s miserly one negotiated and renegotiated the terms of the marriage treaty. Blustering. Quibbling. Delaying. Year after year. They reached nothing but stalemate.

  Isolated at Durham House, I spent much time in prayer.

  “Santa Madre, I am growing older. I beg you to hasten my marriage.”

  “Santa Madre, forgive my impatience, but here I remain, twenty-three years old and still unwed.”

  “Santa Madre, I beg you. Por favor. Soften the old King’s heart so that he allows Prince Henry to marry even without a signed treaty.”

  The King’s heart did not soften. But on a rainy April morning, it stopped beating. The old Tudor King was dead. Prince Henry took the throne.

  When I heard the news, I had my ladies wash my hair in water and wood ash, and launder my yellow damask gown.

  Henry, I knew, would soon arrive.

  MAY 1509

  I was walking alone by the river, my head bowed in thought, when his page ran ahead to announce him.

  “His Grace, King Henry.”

  And there he was, bounding towards me across the close-scythed grass, grinning like a little boy bursting with a secret. Yet he looked anything but boyish. His shapely calves bulged in their silk hose, and his shoulders were so broad they strained the seams of his doublet. A head taller than the rest of his men, he appeared older than his almost eighteen years.

  “Kate!” he shouted.

  I sank to the grass in a deep curtsey. “Your Grace, I am so sorry for the loss of—”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved aside my sympathy, and lifted me up. “Let us not stand on formality, dear Kate. Have we not known each other these many years?”

  I knew not what to say. Indeed, I had not seen nor heard from Henry during most of my isolation. Still, gossip had found its way to Durham House even if the Prince had not. Thus I knew of his charm and wit, of his skill at jousting and tennis, his talent for playing and songwriting.

  Henry took my hand in his. “Now that Father is dead, nobody
shall tell me what to do. I am King. I make my own decisions.”

  Did I detect a shadow of that sullen boy who had escorted me to the cathedral on the day of my wedding to Arthur?

  “I am sure your decisions are very wise, Your Grace,” I replied.

  “They are wise,” he agreed. “And in regard to a wife, I have decided we shall be married immediately.”

  I could not speak for the joy that rose up inside me. Could it be at last? I sent up a prayer of gratitude. Gracias, Santa Madre.

  “I have loved you in silence and from a distance all this time,” he went on, “adored you from the moment we met.” He twirled me around. “Rejoice, Kate! You will be Queen of England.”

  Already, I had decided upon my Queen’s motto: “Humble and Loyal.” Soon workmen would emblazon those words throughout the King’s many residences, along with my personal badge, the pomegranate, the symbol of fertility.

  But I told none of this to Henry. Rather, I blushed, knowing my eyes declared my unmistakable delight. I looked up into his handsome face. “You have made me very happy.”

  “And you shall make me happy, too,” he replied. “You shall give me sons.”

  JUNE 1509

  ¡Gloria a Dios!

  After years of waiting and praying, I was suddenly lifted up on the wings of cherubim and whisked to the palace at Greenwich, where Henry wedded me quickly and privately on a summer morning fragrant with roses.

  That same evening he came to me long before it was dark. Grinning, eyes hungry, he wrapped me in his strong arms and tumbled me onto the bed. He buried his nose in my long hair.

  “Henry!” His breath tickled my skin.

  “I cannot stop myself,” he said. “You smell heavenly, like lemons.”

  From the pocket of his robe he drew forth a strand of exquisite black pearls.

  “A wedding gift,” he said, “handed down through centuries of queens.”

  I shivered as he wound it about my neck. The pearls’ smoothness felt delicious against my skin.

  But not as delicious as Henry’s kisses.

  He moved closer, more slowly and sweetly now, until we lay together, our arms and legs intertwined.

  “There is nothing to fear, my Kate,” he said, running his lips along the lobe of my ear. “I am here….I am your King…to love you forevermore.”

  Those kisses! Those caresses! As his hands and lips moved across my skin, I relaxed.

  “Paraso,” I whispered afterwards as I lay in the circle of his arms. My sister Juana had been right. I was a true wife at last. And it was Paradise.

  Henry stroked my cheek. “I do love you, my darling Kate.”

  “And I you, Henry.”

  And I realized, to my surprise, that the words were true.

  * * *

  —

  A fortnight later, Henry and I processed along a carpet of striped cloth beneath a golden canopy to Westminster Abbey. We walked slowly, solemnly, so that the cheering crowds might glimpse us. Oh, but we dazzled that day, Henry in his clothes of velvet and ermine, me in my purple velvet gown ablaze with jewels and my face glowing with joy.

  It was our coronation day.

  The Archbishop of Canterbury crowned Henry first, before the altar.

  Then it was my turn. Bowing my head, I received the holy oil upon my forehead and upon my breast. The coronation ring was put upon my finger and la corona upon my head. I took the rod and sceptre in my hands, took my place upon my throne.

  My heart swelled. At last I was a queen, a sacred and anointed queen, placed higher than mere mortals, chosen for His special blessings and granted divine grace. I had been tested, but I had prevailed. My destiny had at last been revealed.

  This was God’s plan for me. I doubted it not.

  24 JULY 1527

  The room is suffused with sunlight. But even its brightness cannot chase the memories back into their holes. I find myself remembering those first, carefree months with Henry. Oh, such joy! Our days were a whirl of feasting, dancing, masqueing, and hunting. And our nights…Heat spreads up my neck as I recall our eagerness for each other; the unexpected pleasures we found together.

  I shake my head. “¡Idiota!” I cry. Pushing up from my chair, I throw Henry’s unfinished shirt to the floor in devastating judgement upon myself. What’s done is done.

  But I cannot stop the memories.

  JANUARY 1511

  I rested against the pillows in the royal bed, exhausted but exultant. God had smiled on my marriage. Blessed me. Enabled me to fulfil my most sacred duty. In my arms lay my son. And he was perfection.

  I traced the curve of his tiny ears with my finger, marvelled at the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks. He made a smacking sound with his sweet rosebud mouth. Ay, mi precioso niño. I would have to hand him to the wet nurse for his feeding soon. But not just yet. I wanted to hold him a moment longer.

  Henry pushed his way impatiently into my bedchamber, disobeying the rules of confinement, and peered down at the swaddled infant in my arms. “God be praised, I have a son!” he crowed. His eyes blazed with triumph. “Do you not think he looks like me, Kate?”

  “He does indeed have your red hair and blue eyes,” I agreed. I did not remind him that I, too, had this colouring. I understood that this was the King’s son.

  “They are cheering you in the street,” said Henry. “They cry, ‘Long live Queen Katharine.’ The people have taken you to their hearts.”

  I tore my eyes from my baby to smile at my husband. “As I have them,” I replied.

  “Of course, they cheer me as well,” added Henry quickly. He shouted, “ ‘Long live the noble King Henry!’ ”

  The babe started and let out a cry.

  Looking momentarily like a naughty child, Henry lowered his voice. Still, it trilled with excitement. “The people have already taken to calling the babe Prince Henry,” he boasted. “They will accept no other name.”

  He waited for my agreement.

  “Then it must be so,” I said. “For there is no finer name.”

  “The people’s wish is granted,” he declared. “He shall be called after me—Henry the Ninth.”

  Henry began pacing around the room. “You must hurry and get well so you can be at my side for the grand celebrations I intend to hold in honour of our son’s birth. There shall be feasts and dancing and a tournament—the greatest tournament England has ever seen. Hurry and heal, my dear Kate, so we may move on to Westminster and the rejoicings can begin.”

  “Nothing would bring me greater happiness,” I replied. “But mustn’t I stay with the Prince? He is still too delicate to attend such events.”

  Henry frowned. “The Prince shall stay behind, of course.”

  I hugged my baby closer. “We cannot leave him. He is too little. And he needs his mother.”

  “Well, I need my Queen,” declared Henry. “Our subjects must see us, King and Queen in celebration together.”

  “But—”

  Henry stamped his foot. His sudden vehemence startled me. “I will remind you that your duty—one of your only duties—is to be at my side for all state and court ceremonies. Besides…” He brightened. “How can there be a celebration in your honour if you are not there?”

  I tried again. “My lord, I beg you to allow me to stay with our son. After our earlier sorrow, I—”

  He held up his hand for silence. Henry did not want to be reminded of that other babe. The babe I had carried this time last year. The babe I had so miserably failed to bring living into this world.

  “Let us not dwell upon unpleasantness, Kate,” he commanded. “Not at this sweet moment. Today, you have at last given me the greatest of gifts. And in gratitude, I shall give you the greatest of celebrations.” He smiled then. “Worry not, sweetheart. Our Prince will be left in the hands of the realm’s finest nurses.”

  Just then my son cried lustily for his feeding. Striding back to the bed, Henry plucked him from my arms and handed him to the wet nurse, who stood
in attendance beside the cradle.

  “There, there, sweet princeling,” the nurse cooed. She unlaced the bodice of her gown. “We shall have your tummy full in no time.”

  Henry turned to me. “You see? The finest of care.”

  Heaven help me, but I could not summon a smile.

  FEBRUARY 1511

  “Let us dance,” said Henry. He held out his hand.

  I was too tired to take it. Still weak from the birth, I had been whisked off to Westminster for weeks of celebratory jousts and feasts. No matter that I needed a bit more time to recover. Henry was restless and impatient. He longed to make merry.

  Sadness, too, sapped my strength. I missed my little boy. It had taken courage to kiss him good-bye; to lay him in the arms of his lady nurse and walk away. I longed for him. Every moment of every day. Being separated from him was agony.

  I dared not admit any of this to Henry. Not my weariness, nor my sadness. He would have been hurt if I had, and I did not want to cheat him of his joy. “I would rather watch you dance, my love,” I said now. “Are you not the finest dancer at court?”

  My answer pleased him. In a trice he was on the floor, whirling and capering and glancing time and again in my direction. Did I see him? Was I admiring him?

  I could not help but smile.

  Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, stepped onto the floor and caught Henry’s arm. Henry stopped cavorting as the elderly nobleman whispered in his ear. His face went grey. Without excusing themselves, the two men hastened away.

  What, I wondered, could be so urgent as to pull Henry from the festivities?

  Within minutes, Surrey returned alone. “Your Grace,” he said to me gravely, “the King desires to see you privately.”

  A sense of foreboding crept through my veins. Rising on legs that suddenly trembled, I crossed the great hall with him. Behind us, the musicians still played. The lords and ladies of the court still skipped and twirled. But it all felt aslant, out of tune.

  Henry was waiting for me in the chapel. When I entered, he turned from the altar, tears streaming down his face. “Kate. Oh, Kate!”