“I am Catalina, Princess of Spain and of Wales,” I remind myself. “I am Catalina, beloved of God, especially favored by God. Nothing can go wrong for me. Nothing as bad as this could ever go wrong for me. It is God’s will that I should marry Arthur and unite the kingdoms of Spain and England. God will not let anything happen to Arthur nor to me. I know that He favors my mother and me above all others. This fear must be sent to try me. But I will not be afraid, because I know that nothing will ever go wrong for me.”


Catalina waited in her rooms, sending her women every hour to ask how her husband did. The first few hours they said he was still sleeping, the doctor had made his draft and was standing by his bed, waiting for him to wake. Then, at three in the afternoon, they said that he had wakened but was very hot and feverish. He had taken the draft and they were waiting to see his fever cool. At four he was worse, not better, and the doctor was making up a different prescription.

He would take no dinner. He would just drink some cool ale and the doctor’s cures for fever.

“Go and ask him if he will see me?” Catalina ordered one of her Englishwomen. “Make sure you speak to Lady Margaret. She promised me that I should dine with him. Remind her.”

The woman went and came back with a grave face. “Princess, they are all very anxious,” she said. “They have sent for a physician from London. Dr. Bereworth, who has been watching over him, does not know why the fever does not cool down. Lady Margaret is there and Sir Richard Pole, Sir William Thomas, Sir Henry Vernon, Sir Richard Croft—they are all waiting outside his chamber and you cannot be admitted to see him. They say he is wandering in his mind.”

“I must go to the chapel. I must pray,” Catalina said instantly.

She threw a veil over her head and went back to the round chapel. To her dismay, Prince Arthur’s confessor was at the altar, his head bowed low in supplication. Some of the greatest men of the town and castle were seated around the wall, their heads bowed. Catalina slipped into the room and fell to her knees. She rested her chin on her hands and scrutinized the hunched shoulders of the priest for any sign that his prayers were being heard. There was no way of telling. She closed her eyes.


Dearest God, spare Arthur, spare my darling husband, Arthur. He is only a boy, I am only a girl, we have had no time together, no time at all. You know what a kingdom we will make if he is spared. You know what plans we have for this country, what a holy castle we will make from this land, how we shall hammer the Moors, how we shall defend this kingdom from the Scots. Dear God, in Your mercy spare Arthur and let him come back to me. We want to have our children: Mary, who is to be the rose of the rose, and our son Arthur, who will be the third Holy Roman Catholic Tudor king for England. Let us do as we have promised. Oh, dear Lord, be merciful and spare him. Dear Lady, intercede for us and spare him. Sweet Jesus, spare him. It is I, Catalina, who asks this, and I ask in the name of my mother, Queen Isabella, who has worked all her life in your service, who is the most Christian queen, who has served on your crusades. She is beloved of You, I am beloved of You. Do not, I beg You, disappoint me.


It grew dark as Catalina prayed but she did not notice. It was late when Doña Elvira touched her gently on the shoulder and said, “Infanta, you should have some dinner and go to bed.”

Catalina turned a white face to her duenna. “What word?” she asked.

“They say he is worse.”


Sweet Jesus, spare him, sweet Jesus, spare me, sweet Jesus, spare England. Say that Arthur is no worse.


In the morning they said that he had passed a good night, but the gossip among the servers of the body was that he was sinking. The fever had reached such a height that he was wandering in his mind, sometimes he thought he was in his nursery with his sisters and his brother, sometimes he thought he was at his wedding, dressed in brilliant white satin, and sometimes, most oddly, he thought he was in a fantastic palace. He spoke of a courtyard of myrtles, a rectangle of water like a mirror reflecting a building of gold, and a circular sweep of flocks of swifts who went round and round all the sunny day long.

“I shall see him,” Catalina announced to Lady Margaret at noon.

“Princess, it may be the Sweat,” her ladyship said bluntly. “I cannot allow you to go close to him. I cannot allow you to take any infection. I should be failing in my duty if I let you go too close to him.”

“Your duty is to me!” Catalina snapped.

The woman, a princess herself, never wavered. “My duty is to England,” she said. “And if you are carrying a Tudor heir then my duty is to that child, as well as to you. Do not quarrel with me, please, Princess. I cannot allow you to go closer than the foot of his bed.”

“Let me go there, then,” Catalina said, like a little girl. “Please just let me see him.”

Lady Margaret bowed her head and led the way to the royal chambers. The crowds in the presence chamber had swollen in numbers as the word had gone around the town that their prince was fighting for his life; but they were silent, silent as a crowd in mourning. They were waiting and praying for the rose of England. A few men saw Catalina, her face veiled in her lace mantilla, and called out a blessing on her, then one man stepped forwards and dropped to his knee. “God bless you, Princess of Wales,” he said. “And may the prince rise from his bed and be merry with you again.”

“Amen,” Catalina said through cold lips, and went on.

The double doors to the inner chamber were thrown open and Catalina went in. A makeshift apothecary’s room had been set up in the prince’s privy chamber—a trestle table with large glass jars of ingredients, a pestle and mortar, a chopping board—and half a dozen men in the gabardine gowns of physicians were gathered together. Catalina paused, looking for Dr. Bereworth.

“Doctor?”

He came towards her at once and dropped to his knee. His face was grave. “Princess.”

“What news of my husband?” she said, speaking slowly and clearly for him in French.

“I am sorry, he is no better.”

“But he is not worse,” she suggested. “He is getting better.”

He shook his head. “Il est très malade,” he said simply.

Catalina heard the words but it was as if she had forgotten the language. She could not translate them. She turned to Lady Margaret. “He says that he is better?” she asked.

Lady Margaret shook her head. “He says that he is worse,” she said honestly.

“But they will have something to give him?” She turned to the doctor. “Vous avez un médicament?”

He gestured at the table behind him, at the apothecary.

“Oh, if only we had a Moorish doctor!” Catalina cried out. “They have the greatest skill, there is no one like them. They had the best universities for medicines before…Ifonly I had brought a doctor with me! Arab medicine is the finest in the world!”

“We are doing everything we can,” the doctor said stiffly.

Catalina tried to smile. “I am sure,” she said. “I just so wish…Well! Can I see him?”

A quick glance between Lady Margaret and the doctor showed that this had been a matter of some anxious discussion.

“I will see if he is awake,” he said, and went through the door.

Catalina waited. She could not believe that only yesterday morning Arthur had slipped from her bed complaining that she had not woken him early enough to make love. Now he was so ill that she could not even touch his hand.

The doctor opened the door. “You can come to the threshold, Princess,” he said. “But for the sake of your own health, and for the health of any child you could be carrying, you should come no closer.”

Catalina stepped up quickly to the door. Lady Margaret pressed a pomander stuffed with cloves and herbs in her hand. Catalina held it to her nose. The acrid smell made her eyes water as she peered into the darkened room.

Arthur was sprawled on the bed, his nightgown pulled down for modesty, his face flushed with fever. His blond hair was dark with sweat, his face gaunt. He looked much older than his fifteen years. His eyes were sunk deep into his face, the skin beneath his eyes stained brown.

“Your wife is here,” the doctor said quietly to him.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open and she saw them narrow as he tried to focus on the bright doorway and Catalina, standing before him, her face white with shock.

“My love,” he said. “Amo te.”

“Amo te,” she whispered. “They say I cannot come closer.”

“Don’t come closer,” he said, his voice a thread. “I love you.”

“I love you too!” She could hear that her voice was strained with tears. “You will be well?”

He shook his head, too weary to speak.

“Arthur?” she said demandingly. “You will get better?”

He rested his head back on his hot pillow, gathering his strength. “I will try, beloved. I will try so hard. For you. For us.”

“Is there anything you want?” she asked. “Anything I can get for you?” She glanced around. There was nothing that she could do for him. There was nothing that would help. If she had brought a Moorish doctor with her, if her parents had not destroyed the learning of the Arab universities, if the church had allowed the study of medicine, and not called knowledge heresy…

“All I want is to live with you,” he said, his voice a thin thread.

She gave a little sob. “And I you.”

“The prince should rest now, and you should not linger here.” The doctor stepped forwards.