Виктория Холт - Katharine, the Virgin Widow

The Queen agreed. She murmured: “But young Henry grows more and more like my father every day.”

The King was not displeased; he liked to be reminded that his son’s maternal grandfather was Edward IV. But he did not wish Elizabeth to realize the extent of his pride, so he said: “Let us hope he does not inherit your father’s vices.”

“He had many virtues,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“His virtues gave him the strength to fight for the throne; they brought men rallying to his side; but it was his vices which killed him. Let us hope young Henry will not be so fond of good food and wine, and most of all, women.”

“Henry will take care of himself. It is Arthur on whose account I am so concerned.”

“Soon the Infanta will be here, the marriage celebrated.” Henry rubbed his hands together and his grave face was illumined suddenly by a smile.

Elizabeth knew that he was contemplating the Infanta’s dowry and congratulating himself that there could not have been a more advantageous match than this one with Spain.

Henry turned to his Queen. “I must be watchful of Ferdinand. I am not sure that he is to be trusted. He will try to arrange that all the advantages are on his side.”

“You too are shrewd,” his wife reminded him.

Henry nodded. “It has been very necessary for me to foster shrewdness. I shall be very pleased when the dowry is in my possession and the marriage ceremony has been performed.”

“It would seem that what is delaying our Infanta is not her father’s diplomacy but the weather.”

“Ah, the weather. The winds of the Bay of Biscay are unaccountable, even in summer.”

“What is the latest news of her journey?”

The King hesitated. He did not share such information with any, even his ministers. But there could be no harm in telling her of the Infanta’s progress.

“I have heard that her squadron is still at Laredo to which port she was forced to return on account of the storms. It seems to me that Ferdinand and Isabella are deliberately keeping her there to delay her arrival in England.”

“No doubt the Queen finds it hard for a mother to part with her daughter.” The King grunted impatiently. “This is a girl who is to become Princess of Wales. I should have thought they would have been as distressed by the delay as we are.”

There was a great deal he did not understand, thought Elizabeth; and never would. This husband of hers was without emotions except those of ambition.

“Yet,” murmured the Queen, “I have heard that Queen Isabella is loath to lose her daughter.”

“And she is said to be a great Queen!”

Henry was thoughtful; he was recalling the rumors he had heard concerning the relationship of the Spanish King and Queen with whom his own family would soon be linked in marriage. It was said that Isabella never forgot that she was the Queen of Castile and the senior in the royal partnership. Henry, glancing swiftly at his Queen, was once more grateful to the fate which had given him such a woman.

In an unguarded moment he said: “I think some of our subjects were a little shocked by the hanging of the traitors.”

“The four dogs? I think many were.”

“And you?”

He so rarely allowed a personal note to creep into their relationship that she was momentarily startled.

“I…I was surprised.”

“It is not a pleasant death,” said the King. “It is well to remind ambitious men of this now and then.”

He was smiling but his smile was cold. He had been on the verge of telling her that he intended to send an English sailor to Laredo—a Devon pilot who could lead the fleet of the Spanish Infanta to England without delay; but he changed his mind.

Elizabeth was critical of his conduct and he would endure no criticisms from any man or woman living.

He said: “Matters of state demand my attention. Tonight I shall visit you.”

She bowed her head in acquiescence, but she was afraid. Must there be another pregnancy, another child who, it was more than likely, would never grow to maturity?

It seemed such a short time ago that little Edmund had died. It was heartbreaking when they lived a little while and one grew to love them. A pretty child, Edmund, but to suffer such discomfort, such pain, and then to give birth to a sickly child over whom one watched with anxiety until one suffered yet another loss!

I am too old, too weak for more childbearing, she thought. But she said nothing. What use would it have been to complain to him—to say: I have given you six children, four of whom are living. Do they not suffice?

His answer would be cool and to the point. A Queen must go on bearing children as long as possible. It is her duty.

Did he, she wondered, ever give a thought to Katherine Lee, her own maid of honor? If he did, not even Katherine would know it. She doubted whether Henry was ever unfaithful to herself even in thought.

She had married a strange man, a cold man; but at least she had a faithful husband. Henry would indulge in a sexual relationship for only one purpose: the procreation of children; and to procreate children with any other partner than his wife would in his opinion be an unnecessary act.

There were times when the Queen of England wanted to cast aside her dignity and laugh aloud; but that would be hysterical laughter and the Queen was no more given to hysterical outbursts than her husband was.

So she bowed her head and told herself that she must inform her women that this would be one of the nights which the King would spend in her bed.

THE INFANTA STOOD ON DECK AND WATCHED THE SPANISH coastline fade from view.

When would she see it again? she wondered.

Doña Elvira Manuel, the stern and even formidable duenna whom Queen Isabella had put in charge of the Infanta and her maids of honor, was also gazing at the land she was leaving; but Elvira did not share the Infanta’s sorrow. When she left Spain her authority began, and Elvira was a woman who dearly loved power.

She laid her hand on the Infanta’s arm and said: “You should not grieve. You are going to a new land whose Queen you will surely be one day.”

The Infanta did not answer. How could she expect Elvira Manuel to understand. She was praying silently, praying for courage, that she would not disgrace her family, that she would be able to remember all that her mother had taught her.

It had been a mistake to think of her mother. The thought had conjured up an image of that stern yet loving face which had changed in recent years. The Infanta remembered Queen Isabella, always full of quiet dignity but at the same time possessed of a purposeful energy. Sorrow had changed her—that sorrow which had come to her through her great love for her children.

In Spain I was dearly loved, thought the Infanta. What will happen to me in England? Who will love me there? I am not even beautiful as my maids of honor are. I shall look plainer than ever, compared with them. It was not kind of my father-in-law to stipulate that my maids of honor should all be handsome.

“All will be different,” she whispered.

Elvira Manuel said quickly: “Your Highness spoke?”

“I merely said that nothing will be the same, in this new land, as it has been in Spain. Even my name will be different. From now on I am no longer Catalina; I am Katharine. And they say there is little summer in England.”

“It cannot be colder there than it is in some parts of Spain.”

“But we shall miss the sun.”

“When you have children of your own you will not care whether or not the sun shines.”

The Infanta turned away and looked at the heaving waters. Yes, she thought, a son. Children would make her happy; she knew that. And she would have children. Her very device was the pomegranate, which to the Arabs signified fruitfulness. It reminded her of the pomegranate trees which grew so profusely, with the myrtle, in the gardens of the Alhambra. Whenever she saw her device, and she knew it would throughout her life be constantly with her, she would always remember the patios of Granada and the glistening waters in the fountains. She would think of her childhood, her parents and her brother and sisters. Would she always think of them with this deep yearning? Perhaps when she had children of her own she would overcome this desire to be back in her own childhood.

But it was long before she could expect children; and in the meantime she could only yearn for home.

“Oh, Mother,” she whispered, “I would give everything I have to be with you now.”

In the royal apartments in the Alhambra Queen Isabella would be thinking of her now. She could be certain of that. The Queen would pray for her daughter’s safety at sea until she reached England; then she would pray that her Catalina’s marriage with her English Prince might be fruitful, that Catalina might achieve a happiness which had been denied her sisters, Isabella and Juana, her brother Juan.

The Infanta shivered and Elvira said sharply: “A breeze is rising, Highness. You should retire to your cabin.”

“I am warm enough,” was the answer. She was unaware of the wind. She was thinking of early days in the nursery when they were all together. She felt almost unbearably sad to recall those days when she had sat at her mother’s knee while her sisters, Isabella and Maria, had worked at their tapestry and Juan read aloud to them. Her sister Juana had neither sat at her needlework nor read, nor nestled quietly at their mother’s feet—restless Juana who gave them all cause for such anxiety!

Her sister Isabella and her brother Juan were tragically dead; Maria had gone into Portugal recently to marry Isabella’s widower, Emanuel, King of Portugal. She would be happy there, for Emanuel was a kindly gentle man and would cherish Maria for the sake of her sister whom he had dearly loved. And Juana? Who could say what was happening to Juana? Her life would never run smoothly. There had been rumors that all was not well with her marriage to the handsome Archduke Philip and that in the Brussels court there was many a stormy scene of jealousy which ended in outbursts of strange conduct on Juana’s part.