Katharine, the Virgin Widow

The Marriage of Arthur, Prince of Wales

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.

All her life the Infanta had realized what a deep shadow her sister Juana cast over her mother’s happiness.

But that was the family she was leaving. What of the new one to which she was going?

“Arthur, Margaret, Henry, Mary.” She whispered their names. They would be her companions now; and to them she would be Katharine…no longer Catalina.

She was going into a new country. The King and Queen of England would be her father and mother now. “We shall regard the Infanta as our own daughter, and her happiness shall be our main concern….” Thus wrote the King of England to her mother, who had shown her those words.

“You see,” the Queen had said, “you will have a new family, so perhaps you will soon forget us all at home.”

At that she had been unable to preserve the dignity which was considered necessary to an Infanta of Spain, and had flung herself into her mother’s arms and sobbed: “I shall never forget you. I shall never cease to long for my return.”

Her mother had wept with her. Only we, her children, know how gentle she is, thought the Infanta. Only we know that she is the best mother in the world and that necessarily our hearts must break to leave her.

It was different, saying goodbye to her father.

He embraced her affectionately, kissed her fondly, but his eyes gleamed, not with tears at the parting but with satisfaction at the marriage. If he had had his way she would have been dispatched to England long before. He needed the friendship of England; he was eager for this marriage. He was fond of her, but the great loves of his life were power and money, and his feeling for his children was always second to the advantages they could bring him.

He had not attempted to hide his delight at the parting. There was little that was subtle about Ferdinand.

“Why, daughter,” he had said, “you’ll be Princess of Wales, and I’ll warrant it won’t be long before you’re Queen of England. You’ll not forget your home, my child?”

His meaning was different from that of her mother. The Queen meant: You will remember the love we bear each other, the happiness we have had together, all that I have taught you which will help you to bear your trials with fortitude. Ferdinand meant: Do not forget that you are a Spaniard. When you are at the Court of England be continually on the alert for the advantages of Spain.

“Write often,” Ferdinand had said, putting his lips close to her ear. “You know the channels through which any secret information should be sent to me.”

She closed her eyes now and looked at the gray waters.

It was true, a storm was rising. The hazards of the sea were all about her. What if she should never reach England?

She gripped the rail and thought of Isabella and Juan, both of whom had finished with earthly trials. How long would it be before her mother joined them?

Such thoughts were wicked. She, not yet sixteen, to long for death!

Only in that moment had she realized the depth of her fear.

This is cowardice, she told herself sharply. How do I know what awaits me in England?

SICK FROM THE ROCKING of the ship, cold and drenched with sea water, Katharine stood on deck watching the land which grew more and more distinct as she stood there.

England! The land in which she was destined to be Queen.

Elvira was at her side. “Highness, you should prepare yourself to meet the King.”

“Do you think he will be at Plymouth to greet me?”

“Surely he will, and the Prince with him. Come! We must make you ready to receive them.”

They went to her cabin where her maids of honor clustered round her. All so much prettier than I, she thought; and she imagined Arthur, looking at them and being disappointed because she was the Infanta and his bride.

“We are far from London,” said Elvira. “I have heard that the journey to the capital will last three weeks.”

Katharine thought: Three weeks! What did it matter what discomfort she had to endure if it meant postponing the ceremony for three weeks!

When she was ready to go on deck the ship already lay at anchor. A beautiful sight met her eyes; the sun had come out and was discovering brilliants on the blue water. Stretched before her was the lovely coast of Devon, the grass of which was greener than any she had ever seen; and the gorse was golden.

Before her was Plymouth Hoe, and she saw that many people had gathered there and that they carried banners on which were the words—she knew little English but they were translated for her: “Welcome to the Princess of Wales!” “God bless the Infanta of Spain!”

There was the sound of cheering as she came on deck with her ladies, and she found that her spirits were lifted. Then she heard the bells ringing out and she saw a small boat approaching the ship; in it was a company of splendidly dressed men.

The English pilot who had brought them safely to England came to Katharine’s side and bowing to the veiled figure said: “Your Highness, you are safe from the sea. This is Plymouth Sound and the people of Devon are eager to show you how glad they are to have you with them. Here come the Mayor and his aldermen to give you formal welcome.”

She turned to an interpreter who stood beside her and told him to ask whether the King and Prince of Wales were in Plymouth.

“I doubt they could make the journey to Plymouth, Your Highness,” was the answer. “We are three weeks’ journey from London. But they will have sent orders that all are to welcome you right royally until they can do so themselves.”

She had a feeling that this was an apology for the absence of his King and Prince. It need not have been made to her. She was relieved that she could have a little respite before she met them.

She received the Mayor and his aldermen as graciously as even her mother could have wished.

“Tell them I am happy to be with them,” she said. “I am grateful that I have escaped the perils of the sea. I see a church steeple there. I would first like to go to church and give thanks for my safe arrival.”

“It shall be as Her Highness commands,” was the Mayor’s answer.

Then Katharine came ashore and the people of Plymouth crowded about her.

“Why,” they said, “she is naught but a child.” For although her face was veiled there was no doubt that she was young, and there was many a mother in the crowd who wiped her eyes to think of a young girl’s leaving her home and going to a strange land.

How brave she was! She gave no sign of her disquiet. “She’s a Princess,” they said, “every inch a Princess. God bless her.”

Thus Katharine of Aragon rode through the streets of Plymouth to give thanks for her safe arrival in England and to pray that she might give no offence to the people of her new country, but please them in every way.

Her spirits rose a little as she went through those streets in which the tang of the sea was evident. She smiled at the fresh faces which pressed forward to glimpse her. Their free and easy manners were strange to her; but they were showing her that they were pleased to see her, and that gave infinite comfort to a lonely girl.

THE JOURNEY TOWARDS LONDON had begun; it was inevitably a slow one, for the people of England had been commanded by their King to show a hearty welcome to the Princess from Spain. They needed no such injunctions; they were ever ready to accept an excuse for gaiety.

In the villages and towns through which the cavalcade passed the people halted its progress. The Princess must see their folk dances, must admire the floral decorations and the bonfires which were all in her honor.

They were attracted by this quiet Princess. She was such a child, such a shy, dignified young girl.

It was a pleasant journey indeed from Plymouth to Exeter, and Katharine was astonished by the warmth and brilliance of the sun. She had been told to expect mists and fog, but this was as pleasant as the Spanish sunshine; and never before had she seen such cool green grass.

At Exeter the nature of the journey changed. In that noble city she found more ceremony awaiting her than she had received in Plymouth, and she realized that thus it would be as she drew nearer to the capital.

Waiting to receive her was Lord Willoughby de Broke, who told her that he was High Steward of the King’s household and that it was the express command of His Majesty that all should be done for her comfort.

She assured him that nothing more could be done for her than had been done already; but he bowed and smiled gravely as though he believed she could have no notion of the extent of English hospitality.

Now about her lodgings were ranged the men at arms and yeomen, all in the royal green and white liveries—and a pleasant sight they were.

She made the acquaintance of her father’s ambassador to England and Scotland, Don Pedro de Ayala, an amusing and very witty man, whose stay in England seemed to have robbed him of his Spanish dignity. There was also Dr. de Puebla, a man whom she had been most anxious to meet because Ferdinand had warned her that if she had any secret matter to impart to him she might do it through Puebla.

Both these men, she realized, were to some extent her father’s spies, as most ambassadors were for their own countries. And how different were these two: Don Pedro de Ayala was an aristocrat who had received the title of Bishop of the Canaries. Handsome, elegant, he knew how to charm Katharine with his courtly manners. Puebla was of humble origin, a lawyer who had reached his present position through his own ingenuity. He was highly educated and despised all those who were not; and Ayala he put into this category, for the Bishop had spent his youth in riotous living and, since he came of a noble family, had not thought it necessary to achieve scholarship.

Puebla’s manner was a little sullen, for he told himself that if all had gone as he had wished he should have greeted the Infanta without the help of Ayala. As for Ayala, he was fully aware of Puebla’s feelings towards him and did everything he could to aggravate them.

As they left Exeter, Don Pedro de Ayala rode beside Katharine, and Lord Willoughby de Broke was on her other side, while Puebla was jostled into the background and fumed with rage because of this.

Ayala talked to Katharine in rapid Castilian which he knew Willoughby de Broke could not understand.

“I trust Your Highness has not been put out by this outrageous fellow, Puebla.”

“Indeed no,” replied Katharine. “I found him most attentive.”

“Beware of him. The fellow’s an adventurer and a Jew at that.”

“He is in the service of the Sovereigns of Spain,” she answered.

“Yes, Highness, but your noble father is fully aware that the fellow serves the King of England more faithfully than he does the King and Queen of Spain.”

“Then why is he not recalled and another given his position?”

“Because, Highness, he understands the King of England and the King of England understands him. He has been long in England. In London he follows the profession of lawyer; he lives like an Englishman. Ah, I could tell you some tales of him. He is parsimonious—so much so that he brings disgrace to our country. He has his lodgings in a house of ill-fame and I have heard that when he does not dine at the King’s table he dines at this disreputable house at the cost of two pence a day. This, Highness, is a very small sum for a man in his position to spend, and I have heard it said that the landlord of this house is glad to accommodate him in exchange for certain favors.”

“What favors?” demanded Katharine.

“The man is a lawyer and practices as such; he is on good terms with the King of England. He protects his landlord against the law, Highness.”

“It seems strange that my father should employ the man if he is all you say he is.”

“His Highness believes him to have his uses. It is but a few years ago that the English King offered him a bishopric, which would have brought him good revenues.”

“And he did not accept?”

“He longed to accept, Highness, but could not do so without the consent of your royal parents. This was withheld.”

“Then it would seem that they value his services.”

“Oh, he has wriggled his way into the King’s confidence. But beware of the man, Highness. He is a Jew, and he bears his grudges like the rest.”

Katharine was silent, contemplating the unpleasantness of having to meet two ambassadors who clearly disliked each other; and she was not surprised when Puebla seized his opportunity to warn her against Ayala.

“A coxcomb, Highness. Do not put your trust in such a one. A Bishop! He knows nothing of law and has never mastered Latin. His manner of living is a disgrace to Spain and his cloth. Bishop indeed! He should be in Scotland now. It was for this purpose that he was sent to this country.”

“It would not please my parents if they knew of this discord between their two ambassadors.”

“Highness, they know of it. I should be neglectful of my duty if I did not inform them. And inform them I have.”

Katharine looked with faint dislike at Puebla. Not only did he lack the charming manners of Ayala but she found him pompous, and she thought that his petty meanness, which was noticed by many of those who travelled with them, was humiliating for Spain.

“I used the fellow in Scotland,” went on Puebla. “He was useful there in cementing English and Scottish relations which, Highness, was the desire of your noble father. War between England and Scotland would have been an embarrassment to him at this time, and James IV was harboring the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, and seemed likely to support him.”

“Warbeck has now paid the price of presumption,” said Katharine. “Your Highness most wisely has become informed of English politics, I see.”

“Her Highness, my mother, insisted that I should know something of the country to which I was going.”

Puebla shook his head. “There are bound to be such impostors when two young Princes disappear. So we had our Perkin Warbeck claiming to be Richard, Duke of York.”

“How very sad for the Queen of England,” said Katharine. “Does she still mourn for her two brothers who disappeared so mysteriously in the Tower of London?”

“The Queen is not one to show her feelings. She has children of her own, a good husband and a crown. The last certainly could not be hers had her brothers lived.”

“Still she must mourn,” said Katharine; and she thought of her own brother, Juan, who had died, young and beautiful, a few months after his wedding. She believed she would never forget Juan and the shock and tragedy of his death.

“Well, quite rightly Warbeck has been hanged at Tyburn,” went on Puebla, “and that little matter has been settled. That would be satisfactory if it did not mean that Ayala has left the Scottish Court for that of England. London suits him better than Edinburgh. He is a soft liver. He did not like the northern climate nor the rough Scottish castles. So…we have him with us.”

Ayala rode up beside them.

His smile was mischievous. “Dr. de Puebla,” he said, “I do declare your doublet is torn. Is that the way to appear in the presence of our Infanta! Oh, he’s a close-fisted fellow, Highness. If you would know why, look at the shape of his nose.”

Katharine was horrified at the gibe and did not look at Ayala.

“Highness,” cried Puebla, “I would ask you to consider this: Don Pedro de Ayala may have the nose of a Castilian but the bags under his eyes are a revelation of the life he leads. One is born with one’s nose; that is not a result of dissipation, evil living.…”

Ayala brought his horse closer to Katharine’s. “Let us heed him not, Highness,” he murmured. “He is a low fellow; I have heard that he follows the trade of usurer in London. But what can one expect of a Jew?”

Katharine touched her horse’s flanks and rode forward to join Lord Willoughby de Broke.

She was alarmed. These two men, who could not control their hatred of each other, were the two whom her parents had selected to be her guides and counsellors during her first months in this strange land.

YET AS THE JOURNEY progressed she was attracted by the gaiety of Ayala.

She had discovered that he was amusing and witty, that he was ready to answer all her questions about the customs of the country and, what was more interesting, to give her little snippets of gossip about the family to which she would soon belong.

For much of the journey Katharine travelled in a horse litter, although occasionally she rode on a mule or a palfrey. October in the West country was by no means cold, but there was a dampness in the air and often Katharine would see the sun only as a red ball through the mist. Occasionally there were rain showers, but they were generally brief and then the sun would break through the clouds and Katharine would enjoy its gentle warmth. In the villages through which they passed the people came out to see them, and they were entertained in the houses of the local squires.

Here there was food in plenty; Katharine discovered that her new countrymen set great store by eating; in the great fireplaces enormous fires blazed; even the servants in the houses crowded round to see her—plump, rosy-cheeked young men and women, who shouted to each other and seemed to laugh a good deal. These people were as different from the Spaniards as a people could be. They appeared to have little dignity and little respect for the dignity of others. They were a vigorous people; and, having taken Katharine to their hearts, they did not hesitate to let her know this.

But for the ordeal she knew to be awaiting her at the end of the journey, she would have enjoyed her progress through this land of mists and pale sunshine and rosy-cheeked, exuberant people.

Ayala often rode beside her litter and she would ask him questions which he would be only too ready to answer. She had turned from the pompous Puebla in his musty clothes to the gay cleric, and Ayala was determined to exploit the situation to the full.

He made her feel that there was a conspiracy between them, which to some extent there was. For she knew that, when he rattled on in the Castilian tongue, none of those who were near could understand what was said.

His talk was gay and scandalous, but Katharine felt it was what she needed, and she looked forward to these conversations.

“You must be wary of the King,” he told her. “Have no fear of Arthur. Arthur is as mild as milk. You will be able to mold that one to your way…have no fear of that. Now, had it been Henry, that might have been another matter. But, praise be to the saints, Henry is the second son and it is Arthur for Your Highness.”

“Tell me about Arthur.”

Ayala lifted his shoulders. “Imagine a young boy, a little nervous, pink and white and golden-haired. He is half a head shorter than you are. He will be your slave.”

“Is it true that he does not enjoy good health?”

“It is. But he will grow out of that. And he seems the weaker because he is compared with robust young Henry.”

Katharine was relieved; she was delighted with the idea of a gentle young husband. She had already begun to think of him as her brother Juan, who had been as fair as an angel and gentle in his manner.

“You said I must beware of the King.”

“The King is quiet and ruthless. If he does not like you he will have no compunction in sending you back to Spain.”

“That would not greatly distress me.”

“It would distress your royal parents. And think of the disgrace to Your Highness and the House of Spain.”

“Is the King very formidable?”

“He will be gracious to you but he will never cease to watch. Do not be deceived by his mild manners. He fears all the time that some claimant to the throne will appear, and that there will be supporters to say such a claimant has a greater right. It is not always comfortable to wear the crown.”

Katharine nodded; she thought of the strife which had marred the earlier years of her parents’ life together, when Isabella had been engaged in the bitter War of the Succession.

“There is a mystery surrounding the death of the Queen’s two young brothers, the elder of whom was King Edward V and the younger the Duke of York. Many say they were murdered in the Tower of London by their wicked uncle, the crook-backed Richard, but their bodies were never discovered and there are many rumors concerning those deaths of which it would be unwise even to think, Highness.”

Katharine shivered. “Poor children,” she murmured.

“They are now past all earthly pain, and there is a wise King sitting on the throne of England. He married the Princes’ sister, and so joined the two warring factions. It might be wise not to dwell on the past, Highness. There have been two pretenders to the throne: Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel. Simnel, who pretended he was Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick and nephew of Richard III, is now serving as a scullion in the King’s household. He was obviously an impostor; therefore the King sent him to the kitchens—a sign of the King’s contempt—but Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn. This King is fond of showing examples to his people, because he lives in perpetual terror that someone will try to overthrow him.”

“I hope I shall find favor in his sight.”

“Your dowry has already found favor with him, Highness. As for yourself, you will please him too.”

“And the Queen?”

“Have no fear of the Queen. She will receive you kindly. She has no influence with the King, who is eager to show her that he owes no part of the throne to her. He is a man who takes counsel of none, but if he could be said to be under the influence of any, that one is his mother. You must please Margaret Beaufort Countess of Richmond if you will please the King—and all you need do is to provide the royal house with heirs, and all will go merrily.”

“I pray that God will make me fruitful. That, it seems, is the prayer of all Princes.”

“If there is aught else Your Highness wishes to know at any time, I pray you ask of me and ignore the Jew.”

Katharine bowed her head. And so the journey progressed.

THE KING SET OUT from Richmond Palace. He had become impatient. He was all eagerness to see the Spanish Infanta who had taken so long in reaching his country.

Arthur had been on pilgrimage to Wales—as Prince of Wales he was warmly greeted there and the King wished his son to show himself now and then in the Principality. Arthur had received word from his father that he was to come with all speed to East Hampstead, where he would greet his bride.

Henry disliked journeys, for he was not a man of action and they seemed to him an unnecessary expense.

“But on the occasion of my son’s wedding,” he grumbled to Empson, “I daresay we are expected to lay out a little.”

“That is so, Sire,” was the answer.

“Let us hope that we shall have the revenues to meet this occasion,” sighed the King; and Empson decided that he would raise certain fines to meet the extra expense.

Henry smiled wryly, but he was in fact delighted because his son was acquiring one of the richest Princesses in Europe. It was a good thing that this little island should be allied to the greatest power in the world, and what better tie could there be than through marriage?

Heirs were what were needed and, once this girl provided them, all well and good. But he was a little anxious about her. Her brother, the heir of Spain, had died shortly after his marriage. Exhausted by being a husband, it was said in some quarters. He hoped Katharine was of stronger health. And if she were…what of his own Arthur? Arthur’s cough and spitting of blood denoted weakness. They would have to take great care of Arthur, and he was not yet fifteen. Was it too young to tax his strength with a bride?

He had not consulted his physicians; he consulted no one; he and he alone would decide whether the marriage should be consummated immediately, or whether the royal couple should wait for a few months, or perhaps a year.

Young people, he mused, might indulge unwisely in the act of love. They might have no restraint. Not that he believed this would be the case with Arthur. Had it been Henry, it would have been another matter; but then there would have been no cause for anxiety on that account where Henry was concerned. But what of the Infanta? Was she a lusty young woman? Or was she sickly like her elder sister who had recently died in childbirth?

The more the King pondered this matter, the more eager he was to meet the Infanta.

THERE WAS consternation in the Infanta’s party.

A message had been brought to Ayala stating that the King was on his way to meet his son’s bride, who had stayed that night at the residence of the Bishop of Bath in Dogmersfield and was some fifteen leagues from London Bridge.

Ayala did not pass on the news to Puebla. Indeed he was determined to keep it from the man—not only because he disliked him and never lost an opportunity of insulting him, but because he really did believe that Puebla was more ready to serve Henry VII of England than Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain.

Instead he sought out Elvira Manuel.

“The King is on his way to meet us,” he told her abruptly. “He wishes to see the Infanta.”

“That is quite impossible,” retorted Elvira. “You know the instructions of their Highnesses.”

“I do. The Infanta is not to be seen by her bridegroom or anyone at the English Court until she is a wife. She is to remain veiled until after the ceremony.”

“I am determined,” said Elvira, “to obey the commands of the King and Queen of Spain, no matter what are the wishes of the King of England.”

“I wonder what Henry will say to that.” Ayala smiled somewhat mischievously, for he found the situation piquant and amusing.

“There is one thing that must be done,” said Elvira. “To prevent discord, you should go ahead and explain to the King.”

“I will leave at once,” Ayala told her. “In the meantime you should warn the Infanta.”

Ayala set out on the road to East Hampstead; and Elvira, her lips pursed with determination, prepared herself to do battle.

She went to Katharine and told her that the King would make an attempt to see her, and that on no account must he succeed.

Katharine was disturbed. She was afraid that the King of England might consider her extremely discourteous if she refused to receive him.

WHEN ARTHUR JOINED his father at East Hampstead, Henry noticed that his son looked wan and worried.

No, the King decided, the marriage shall not be consummated for a year. In any case I doubt whether Arthur would be capable of consummating it.

“Put your shoulders back, boy,” he said. “You stoop too much.”

Arthur obediently straightened his shoulders. There was no resentment. How differently young Henry would have behaved! But of course there would have been no necessity to criticize Henry’s deportment.

We should get more sons, thought the King anxiously.

“Well, my son,” he said, “very soon now you will be face to face with your bride.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You must not let her think that you are a child, you know. She is almost a year older than you are.”

“I know it, Father.”

“Very well. Prepare yourself to meet her.”

Arthur asked leave to retire and was glad when he reached his own apartment. He felt sick with anxiety. What should he say to his bride? What must he do with her? His brother Henry had talked slyly of these matters. Henry knew a great deal about them already. Henry ought to have been the elder son.

He would have made a good king, thought Arthur. I should have done better in the Church.

He let himself brood on the peace of monastic life. What relief! To be alone, to read, to meditate, not to have to take a prominent part in ceremonies, not to have to suffer continual reproach because a few hours in the saddle tired him, because he could never learn to joust and play the games at which Henry excelled.

“If only,” he murmured to himself, “I were not the first-born. If only I could miraculously change places with my brother Henry, how happy I could be!”

THE NEXT MORNING the King, with the Prince beside him, set out on the journey to Dogmersfield.

Almost immediately it began to rain, and the King looked uneasily at his son while Arthur squirmed in the saddle. His cough would almost certainly come back if he suffered a wetting, and although the rain was fine it was penetrating.

Arthur always felt that it was his fault that he had not been born strong. He tried to smile and look as though there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a ride in the rain.

When they were within a few miles of the Bishop’s Palace the King saw a rider galloping towards his party, and in a very short time he recognized the Spanish Ambassador Ayala.

Ayala drew up before Henry and sweeping off his hat bowed gracefully.

“News has been brought to me that Your Grace is on the way to see the Infanta.”

“That news is now confirmed,” answered the King. “So impatient was our young bridegroom that, having heard that the Infanta was at Dogmersfield, he could wait no longer. He himself has come hot-foot from Wales. He yearns to see his bride.”

Arthur tried to force his wet face into an expression which would confirm his father’s words as the Spanish Ambassador threw a sly smile in his direction which clearly conveyed his knowledge of the boy’s nervousness.

“Alas,” said Ayala, “Your Grace will be unable to see the bride.”

“I…unable to see the bride!” said the King in a cold, quiet voice.

“The King and Queen of Spain insist that their daughter should observe the customs of a high-born Spanish lady. She will be veiled until after the ceremony, and not even her bridegroom may see her face until then.”

The King was silent. A terrible suspicion had come into his mind; he was the most suspicious of men. Why should he not look on the face of the Infanta? What had the Spanish Sovereigns to hide? Was this some deformed creature they were sending him? “Not until after the ceremony.” The words sounded ominous.

“This seems a strange condition,” said Henry slowly.

“Sire, it is a Spanish custom.”

“I like it not.”

He turned his head slightly and said over his shoulder: “We will form a council, my lords. Here is an urgent matter to discuss. Ambassador, you will excuse us. It will take us but a short time to come to a decision, I imagine.”

Ayala bowed his head and drew his horse to the side of the road while the King waved a hand towards a nearby field.

“Come with us, Arthur,” he said. “You must join our council.”

Henry placed himself and his son in the center of the field and his followers ranged themselves about him. Then he addressed them:

“I like this not. I am denied admittance to my son’s bride although she is in my territory. I would not wish to go against the law in this matter. Therefore, the council must decide what should be done. The Infanta has been married to the Prince by proxy. What we must decide is whether she is now my subject; and, if she is my subject, what law could prevent my seeing her if I wished. I pray you, gentlemen, consider this matter, but make it quick for the rain shows no sign of abating and we shall be wet to the skin by the time we reach Dogmersfield.”

There was whispering among those gathered in the field. Henry watched them covertly. He had as usual conveyed his wishes and he expected his councillors to obey them. If any one of them raised objections to what he wished, that man would doubtless find himself guilty of some offence later on; he would not be sent to prison; he would merely have to pay a handsome fine.

All knew this. Many of them had paid their fines for small offences. The King thought no worse of them, once they had paid. It was their money which placated him.

In a few seconds the council had made its decision.

“In the King’s realm the King is absolute master. He need not consider any foreign law or customs. All the King’s subjects should obey his wishes, and the Infanta, having married the Prince of Wales, albeit by proxy, is the King’s subject.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction which held a faint tinge of regret. He could not, with justice, extract a fine from one of them.

“Your answer is the only one I expected from you,” he said. “It is not to be thought of that the King should be denied access to any of his subjects.”

He led the way out of the field to where Ayala was waiting for him.

“The decision is made,” he said. Then he turned to Arthur. “You may ride on to Dogmersfield at the head of the cavalcade. I go on ahead.”

He spurred his horse and galloped off; and Ayala, laughing inwardly, closely followed him.

The Sovereigns of Spain would learn that this Henry of England was not a man to take orders, thought the ambassador. He wondered what Doña Elvira was going to say when she was confronted by the King of England.

KATHARINE WAS SITTING with her maids of honor when they heard the commotion in the hall below. It had been too miserable a day for them to leave the Bishop’s Palace and it had been decided that they should remain there until the rain stopped.

Elvira burst on them, and never had Katharine seen her so agitated.

“The King is below,” she said. Katharine stood up in alarm.

“He insists on seeing you. He declares he will see you. I cannot imagine what their Highnesses will say when this reaches their ears.”

“But does not the King of England know of my parents’ wishes?”

“It would seem there is only one whose wishes are considered in this place and that is the King of England.”

“What is happening below?”

“The Count of Cabra is telling the King that you are not to be seen until after the wedding, and the King is saying that he will not wait.”

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Katharine quietly. “This is England and when we are in the King’s country we must obey the King. Let there be no more protests. We must forget our own customs and learn theirs. Go and tell them that I am ready to receive the King.”

Elvira stared at her in astonishment; in that moment Katharine looked very like her mother, and it was as impossible for even Elvira to disobey her as it would have been to disobey Isabella of Castile.

SHE STOOD FACING the light, her veil thrown back.

She saw her father-in-law, a man a little above medium height, so thin that his somewhat sombre garments hung loosely on him; his sparse fair hair, which fell almost to his shoulders, was lank and wet; his long gown which covered his doublet was trimmed with ermine about the neck and wide sleeves. There was mud on his clothes and even on his face. He had clearly travelled far on horseback in this inclement weather and had not thought it necessary to remove the stains of travel before confronting her.

Katharine smiled and the alert, crafty eyes studied her intently, looking for some defect, some deformity which would make her parents desirous of hiding her from him; he could see none.

Henry could not speak Spanish and he had no Latin. Katharine had learned a little French from her brother Juan’s wife, Margaret of Austria, but Margaret’s stay in Spain had been short and, when she had gone, there had been no one with whom Katharine could converse in that language. Henry spoke in English: “Welcome to England, my lady Infanta. My son and I have eagerly awaited your coming these many months. If we have rudely thrust aside the customs of your country we ask pardon. You must understand that it was our great desire to welcome you that made us do so.”

Katharine attempted to reply in French but slipped into Spanish. She curtseyed before the King while his little eyes took in the details of her figure. She was healthy, this Spanish Infanta, more so than his frail Arthur. She was a good deal taller than Arthur; her eyes were clear; so was her skin. Her body was sturdy, and if not voluptuous it was strong. She was no beauty, but she was healthy and she was young; it was merely custom which had made her parents wish to hide her from him. Her only real claim to beauty was that abundant hair—thick, healthy hair with a touch of red in its color.

Henry was well satisfied.

She was talking to him now in her own tongue, and, although he could not understand her, he knew that she was replying to his welcome with grace and charm.

He took her hand and led her to the window.

Then he signed to Ayala who had at that moment entered the apartment.

“Tell the Infanta,” said Henry, “that I am a happy man this day.”

Ayala translated, and Katharine replied that the King’s kindness made her very happy too.

“Tell her,” said the King, “that in a few minutes her bridegroom will be riding to the palace at the head of a cavalcade. They cannot be much more than half an hour after me.”

Ayala told Katharine this; and she smiled.

She was standing between the King and Ayala, they in their wet garments, when she first saw her bridegroom.

He looked very small, riding at the head of that cavalcade, and her first feeling for him was: He is so young—he is younger than I am. He looks frightened. He is more frightened than I am.

And in that moment she felt less resentful of her fate.

She determined that she and Arthur were going to be happy together.

IT WAS LATER that evening. Katharine looked almost pretty in candlelight; her cheeks were faintly flushed; her gray eyes alight with excitement. Her maids of honor, all chosen for their beauty, were very lovely indeed. Only Doña Elvira Manuel sat aloof, displeased. She could not forget that the wishes of her Sovereigns had been ignored.

The Infanta had invited the King and the Prince to supper in her apartments in the Bishop’s Palace; and in the gallery the minstrels were playing. The supper had been a prolonged meal; Katharine was continually being astonished at the amount that was eaten in England. At tonight’s feast there had been sucking pigs and capons, peacocks, chickens, mutton and beef, savory pies, deer, fish and wild fowl, all washed down with malmsey, romney and muscadell.

The English smacked their lips and showed their appreciation of the food; even the King’s eyes glistened with pleasure and only those who knew him well guessed that he was calculating how much the feast had cost, and that if the Bishop could afford such lavish entertainment he might be expected to contribute with equal bounty to the ever hungry exchequer.

The Prince sat beside Katharine. He was an elegant boy, for he was fastidious in his ways and his lawn shirt was spotlessly clean as was the fine silk at collar and wristbands; his long gown was trimmed with fur as was his father’s, and his fair hair hung about his face, shining like gold from its recent rainwash.

His skin was milk-white but there was a delicate rose-flush in his cheeks and his blue eyes seemed to have sunk too far into their sockets; but his smile was very sweet and a little shy, and Katharine warmed to him. He was not in the least like his father, nor like her own father. Her mother had once told her of her first meeting with her father and how she had thought him the handsomest man in the world. Katharine would never think that of Arthur; but then before she had seen him Isabella of Castile had determined to marry Ferdinand of Aragon, and she had gone to great pains to avoid all the marriages which others had attempted to thrust upon her.

All marriages could not be like that of Isabella and Ferdinand, and even that marriage had had its dangerous moments. Katharine remembered the conflict for power between those two. She knew that she had brothers and sisters who were her father’s children but not her mother’s.

As she looked at gentle Arthur she was sure that their marriage would be quite different from that of her parents.

Arthur spoke to her in Latin because he had no Spanish and she had no English.

That would soon be remedied, he told her. She should teach him her language; he would teach her his. He thanked her for the letters she had written him and she thanked him for his.

They had been formal little notes, those letters in Latin, written at the instigation of their parents, giving no hint of the reluctance both felt towards their marriage; and now that they had seen each other they felt comforted.

“I long to meet your brother and sisters,” she told him.

“You shall do so ere long.”

“You must be happy to have them with you. All mine have gone away now. Every one of them.”

“I am sorry for the sadness you have suffered.”

She bowed her head.

He went on: “You will grow fond of them. Margaret is full of good sense. She will help you to understand our ways. Mary is little more than a baby—a little pampered, I fear, but charming withal. As for Henry, when you see him you will wish that he had been born my father’s elder son.”

“But why should I wish that?”

“Because you will see how far he excels me in all things and, had he been my father’s elder son, he would have been your husband.”

“He is but a boy, I believe.”

“He is ten years old, but already as tall as I. He is full of vitality and the people’s cheers are all for him. I believe that everyone wishes that he had been my father’s elder son. Whereas now he will doubtless be Archbishop of Canterbury and I shall wear the crown.”

“Would you have preferred to be Archbishop of Canterbury?”

Arthur smiled at her. He felt it would have sounded churlish to have admitted this, for that would mean that he could not marry her. He said rather shyly: “I did wish so; now I believe I have changed my mind.”

Katharine smiled. It was all so much easier than she had believed possible.

Elvira had approached her and was whispering: “The King would like to see some of our Spanish dances. He would like to see you dance. You must do so only with one of your maids of honor.”

“I should enjoy that,” cried Katharine.

She rose and selected two maids of honor. They would show the English, she said, one of the stateliest of the Spanish dances; and she signed to the minstrels to play.

The three graceful girls, dancing solemnly in the candlelit apartment, were a charming sight.

Arthur watched, his pale eyes lighting with pleasure. How graceful was his Infanta! How wonderful to be able to dance and not become breathless as he did!

The King’s eyes were speculative. The girl was healthy, he was thinking. She would bear many children. There was nothing to fear. Moreover Arthur was attracted by her, and had seemed to grow a little more mature in the last hour. Was he ready? What a problem! To put them to bed together might terrify this oversensitive boy, might disclose that he was impotent. On the other hand, if he proved not to be impotent, might he not tax his strength by too much indulgence?

What to do? Wait? There could be no harm in waiting. Six months perhaps. A year. They would still be little more than children.

If Henry had only been the elder son!

Ayala was at the King’s elbow, sly, subtle, guessing his thoughts.

“The Infanta says that she does not wish Your Grace to think that only solemn dances are danced in Spain; she and her ladies will show you something in a different mood.”

“Let it be done,” answered the King.

And there was the Infanta, graceful still, dignified, charming, yet as gay as a gipsy girl, her full skirts twirling in the dance, her white hands as expressive as her feet. Katharine of Aragon could dance well.

The King clapped his hands and the Prince echoed his father’s applause.

“We are grateful to the ladies of Spain for giving us such enjoyment,” said Henry. “I fancy our English dances are not without merit; and since the Infanta has danced for the Prince, the Prince should dance for the Infanta. The Prince of Wales will now partner the Lady Guildford in one of our English dances.”

Arthur felt a sudden panic. How could he match Katharine in the dance? She would despise him. She would see how small he was, how weak; he was terrified that he would be out of breath and, if he began to cough, as he often did at such times, his father would be displeased.

Lady Guildford was smiling at him; he knew her well, for she was his sisters’ governess and they often practiced dancing together. The touch of her cool fingers comforted him, and as he danced his eyes met the grave ones of the watching Infanta, and he thought: She is kind. She will understand. There is nothing to fear.

The dance over he came to sit beside her once more. He was a little breathless, but he felt very happy.

THIS WAS HER wedding day. She was waiting in the Bishop’s Palace of St. Paul’s to be escorted to the Cathedral for the ceremony. She would be led to the altar by the Duke of York, whom she had already met and who disturbed her faintly. There was something so bold and arrogant about her young brother-in-law, and an expression which she could not understand appeared on his face when he looked at her. It was an almost peevish, sullen expression; she felt as though she were some delicious sweetmeat which he desired and which had been snatched from him to be presented to someone else.

That seemed ridiculous. She was no sweetmeat. And why should a boy of ten be peevish because his elder brother was about to be married?

She had imagined this; but all the same she felt an unaccountable excitement at the prospect of seeing the Duke of York again.

She had ridden into London from Lambeth to Southwark by way of London Bridge, and her young brother-in-law had come to escort her.

He was certainly handsome, this young boy. He swept into the apartment as though he were the King himself, magnificently attired in a doublet of satin, the sleeves of which were slashed and ruched somewhat extravagantly; there were rubies at his throat. His face was broad and dimpled; his mouth thin, his eyes blue and fierce, but so small that when he smiled they seemed to disappear into the smooth pink flesh. His complexion was clear, bright and glowing with health; his hair was shining, vital and reddish gold in color. There could be no mistaking him for anyone but a Prince. She found it hard to believe that he was merely ten years old, for he seemed older than Arthur, and she wondered fleetingly how she would have felt if this boy had been her bridegroom instead of his brother.

They would not have married her to a boy of ten. But why not? There had been more incongruous royal marriages.

He had taken off his feathered hat to bow to her.

“Madam, your servant,” he had said; but his looks belied the humility of his words.

He had explained in Latin that he had come to escort her into London. “It is my father’s command,” he said. “But had it not been I should have come.”

She did not believe that, and she suspected him of being a braggart; but she was conscious of the fascination he had for her and she realized that she was not the only one who was conscious of his power.

He had stared at her thick hair which she was to wear loose for the journey into London, and had put out a plump finger to touch it.

“It is very soft,” he had said, and his little eyes gleamed.

She had been aware that she seemed strange to him, with her hair flowing thus under the hat which was tied on her head with a gold lace; beneath the hat she wore a headdress of scarlet.

“Your hat,” he had told her, “reminds me of that which Cardinals wear.”

And he had laughed, seeming but a boy of ten in that moment.

He had ridden on one side of her as they came through the streets while on the other side was the Legate of Rome. The people had lined the streets to see the procession and she had noticed that, although many curious glances came her way, eyes continually strayed to the young Prince riding beside her. He had been aware of this and she had noticed that he lost no opportunity of acknowledging his popularity and, she suspected, doing all he could to add to it.

The citizens of London had organized a pageant to show their welcome for the Spanish Princess whom they regarded as their future Queen, and in the center of this pageant had been Saint Katharine surrounded by a company of virgins all singing the praises of the Princess of Wales.

She had smiled graciously at the people and they had cheered calling: “Long live the Princess of Wales! God bless the Infanta of Spain! Long live the Prince of Wales! Long live the Duke of York!”

And the young Duke of York had lifted his bonnet high so that the light caught his golden hair, and Katharine admitted that he was indeed a handsome Prince.

When they had reached the Bishop’s Palace, which was adjacent to the Cathedral, it had been the young Duke of York who took her hand and led her in.

That had happened some days before, and now this was her wedding day; and once again that young boy would walk beside her and lead her to the altar where his brother would be waiting for her.

She stood still in her elaborate wedding finery; indeed she found it not easy to move. Her gown stood out over the hoops beneath it, and on her head she wore the mantilla of gold, pearls and precious stones. The veil cascaded over her head and shielded her face. She was dressed as a Spanish Princess and the style was new to England.

Henry came to her and looked at her in blank admiration.

Then he spoke: “Why, you are beautiful!”

“And you are kind,” she answered.

“I am truthful,” he said. “That is not kindness, sister.”

“I am glad that I please you.”

His eyes narrowed suddenly in a manner which she already knew was a habit with him. “It is not I whom you wish to please,” he said sullenly. “Is that not so? It is my brother.”

“I wish to please every member of my new family.”

“You please Arthur,” he said, “and you please Henry. It is of no importance that you please the girls.”

“Oh, but it is…it is of the greatest importance.”

“You will please Margaret if you embroider.” He snapped his fingers. “Your eyes are too beautiful to strain with needlework. As for Mary, she is pleased by everyone who makes much of her. But you please me because you are beautiful. Is that not a better reason?”

“To embroider means to have learned how to do so. There is great credit in that. But if I should be beautiful—which I do not think I am—that would be no credit to me.”

“You will find that people in England admire your beauty more than your embroidery,” he told her. He frowned. He wished that he could think of something clever to say, the sort of remark which his tutor, John Skelton, would have made had he been present. Henry admired Skelton as much as anyone he knew. Skelton had taught his pupil a great deal—and not only from lesson books. Henry liked Skelton’s bold, swaggering speech, his quick wit, and had absorbed all that he had taught him about the way a gentleman should live and a good deal else besides; Skelton was not averse to repeating Court gossip and tales of the scandalous habits of some of the courtiers. Often certain information passed between them which was to be secret; Skelton had said: “You have to be a man, my Prince, as well as an Archbishop, and if by ill fate you should be forced to enter the Church then you will do well to sow your wild oats early.” Henry knew a great deal about the kind of wild oats which could be sown and was longing to sow some. He pitied poor Arthur under the tutelage of Dr. Linacre, a solemn, wise old man who thought—and endeavored to make Arthur agree with him—that the main object in life should be the mastery of Greek and Latin.

He wanted to tell Katharine now that although he was young he would doubtless make a better husband for her even at this stage than Arthur. But the precocious child did not know how to express such thoughts.

So he took her by the hand, this wondrously apparelled bride of his brother’s, and led her from the Palace to the Cathedral; and the people cheered and said: “What a handsome bridegroom our Prince Henry will make when his time comes!”

Henry heard and was pleased; yet he was angry at the same time. Life had given him all but one important thing, he believed. Good health, handsome looks, vitality, the power to excel—and then had made him the second son.

In the Cathedral a stage had been erected; it was circular in shape and large enough to contain eight people, including Katharine in her voluminous wedding dress. It was covered with scarlet cloth and about it a rail had been set up.

To this dais Henry led Katharine; and there waiting for her was Arthur, dazzling in white satin adorned with jewels.

Henry VII and his Queen, Elizabeth of York, watched the ceremony from a box at the side of the dais.

The King thought how small Arthur looked beside his bride and wondered whether the unhealthy whiteness of his skin was made more obvious by the hectic flush on his cheeks. He was still undecided. To consummate or not consummate? To make an effort to get a grandson quickly and perhaps endanger his heir’s health, or to let the pair wait a year or so? He had half the bride’s dowry already; he could scarcely wait to get his hands on the other half. He would have to watch Ferdinand. Ferdinand was continually planning wars; he wanted to see the Italian states under Spanish control; he would make all sorts of excuses about that second half of the dowry.

But I’ll keep him to it, thought Henry. If there were a child, that would make him realize the need to pay the second half quickly. He would be doubly pleased with the marriage if his daughter conceived and bore quickly.

And yet…

Elizabeth was conscious of her husband’s thoughts. They are too young, she considered. Arthur at least is too young. Over-excitement weakens him. If only Henry would talk to me about this matter! But what is the use of wishing that, when he never consults anyone. There will be one person to decide whether the young Infanta is to lose her virginity this night—and that will be the King of England. And as yet he is undecided.

The Archbishop of Canterbury with nineteen bishops and abbots was preparing to take part in the ceremony. Now he was demanding of the young couple that they repeat their vows; their voices were only just audible in the hushed Cathedral. The Infanta’s was firm enough; Arthur’s sounded feeble.

I trust, his mother thought uneasily, that he is not going to faint. It would be construed as an evil omen.

Her eyes rested long on her white-clad firstborn and she remembered that September day in Winchester Castle when she had first heard the feeble cries of her son.

She had been brought to bed in her chamber which had been hung with a rich arras; but she had insisted that one window should not be covered because she could not endure the thought of having all light and air shut out. Her mother-in-law, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, had been with her, and she had been grateful for her presence. Before this she had been considerably in awe of this formidable lady, for she knew that she was the only woman who had any real influence with the King.

The birth had been painful and she had been glad that she had only women to attend to her. Margaret had agreed with her that the delivery of babies was women’s work; so she had said farewell to all the gentlemen of the Court when her pains had begun and retired to her chamber, with her mother-in-law in charge of the female attendants.

How ill she had been! Arthur had arrived a month before he was expected, and afterwards she had suffered cruelly from the ague; but she had recovered and had tried not to dread the next confinement, which she knew was inevitable. A Queen must fight, even to the death, if necessary, to give her King and country heirs. It was her mission in life.

And there he was now—that fair, fragile baby, her firstborn—having lived precariously enough through a delicate childhood, preparing now to repeat the pattern with this young girl from Spain.

There was a tear in her eye and her lips were moving. She realized she was praying: “Preserve my son. Give him strength to serve his country. Give him happiness, long life and fruitful marriage.”

Elizabeth of York feared that she was praying for a miracle.

AFTER MASS HAD BEEN celebrated, the young bride and groom stood at the door of the Cathedral, and there the crowds were able to see them kneel while Arthur declared that he endowed his bride with a third of his property.

The people cheered.

“Long live the Prince and Princess of Wales!”

The couple rose, and there beside the bride was young Prince Henry as though determined not to be shut out from the center of attraction. He took the bride’s hand and walked with her and his brother to the banqueting hall in the Bishop’s Palace where a feast of great magnificence had been set out for them.

There Katharine was served on gold plate which was studded with precious gems; but as she ate she was thinking with trepidation of the night which lay before her, and she knew that her bridegroom shared her fears. She felt that she wanted to hold back the night; she was so frightened that she longed for her mother, longed to hear that calm, serene voice telling her that there was nothing to fear.

The feasting went on for several hours. How the English enjoyed their food! How many dishes there were! What quantities of wine!

The King was watching them. Was he aware of their fear? Katharine was beginning to believe that there was little the King did not understand.

The Queen was smiling too. How kind she was—or would have been if she had been allowed to be. The Queen would always be what her husband wished, thought Katharine; and there might be times when he wished her to be cruel.

Katharine had heard of the ceremony of putting the bride to bed. In England it was riotous and ribald…even among royalty. It could never have been so for her mother, she was sure. But these people were not dignified Spaniards; they were the lusty English.

She turned to Arthur who was trying to smile at her reassuringly, but she was sure his teeth were chattering.

THE MOMENT HAD COME and they were in the bedchamber. There was the bed, and the curtains were drawn back, while it was being blessed; Katharine knew enough English now to recognize the word fruitful.

She dared not look at Arthur, but she guessed how he was feeling.

The room was illuminated by many candles and their light shone on the scarlet arras, on the silk bed curtains and the many faces of those who had crowded into the bedchamber.

The King came to them and, laying a hand on the shoulder of each, he drew them towards him.

He said: “You are very young. Your lives lie before you. You are not yet ready for marriage, but this ceremony shall be a symbol, and when you are of an age to consummate the marriage then shall it be consummated.”

Katharine saw the relief in Arthur’s face and she herself felt as though she wanted to weep for joy. She was no longer afraid; nor was Arthur.

They were led to the bed and the curtains were drawn while their attendants stripped them of their clothes; and when there was nothing to cover their white naked bodies and they knelt side by side, still they were not afraid.

They prayed that they might do their duty; they prayed as all married people were expected to pray on the night of their nuptials. But this was no ordinary wedding night because it was the King’s express command that they were too young to consummate the marriage.

A cup of warm, sweet wine was brought to them and they drank as commanded. Then an attendant came and wrapped their robes about them. The ceremony was over.

The people who had crowded into the bedchamber departed; the servants of Katharine and Arthur—Spanish and English—remained in the antechamber; the door of the nuptial chamber was locked, and the bride and bridegroom were together.

Arthur said to her: “There is nothing to fear.”

“I heard the King’s command,” she answered.

Then he kissed her brow, and said: “In time I shall be your husband in truth.”

“In time,” she answered.

Then she lay down in the marriage bed still wearing the robe which her attendant had wrapped about her. The bed was big. Arthur lay down beside her in his robe.

“I am so tired,” said Katharine. “There was so much noise.”

Arthur said: “I am often tired, Katharine.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Katharine.”

They were so exhausted by the ceremonies and their attendant fears that soon they slept; and in the morning the virgin bride and groom were ready to continue with their wedding celebrations.