Katharine, the Virgin Widow

The Passing of Elizabeth of York

THE LONG DAYS OF SPRING AND SUMMER PASSED uneventfully for Katharine. Always she was awaiting the summons to return home.

This did not come, although others had been summoned back to Spain. One was Father Alessandro Geraldini; another was Don Pedro de Ayala.

Doña Elvira had explained their departure to Katharine. Don Pedro de Ayala, she said, was unworthy to represent Spain in England. He led too carnal a life for an ambassador, and a bishop at that. As for Geraldini, he had whispered slander against the Infanta herself, and for such she had demanded his recall.

“Her Highness your mother declares that he is indeed unworthy to remain a member of your household. I thank the saints that I was shown his perfidy in time.”

“What did he say of me?” Katharine wanted to know.

“That you were with child.”

Katharine flushed scarlet at the suggestion, and Elvira felt very confident that, if it should ever come to the point when there must be an examination, her pronouncement would be vindicated.

“I had hoped my mother would send for me,” said Katharine mournfully.

Elvira shook her head. “My dear Highness, it is almost certain that there will be another marriage for you in England. Had you forgotten that the King has another son?”

“Henry!” she whispered; and she thought of the bold boy who had led her to the altar where Arthur had been waiting for her.

“And why not?”

“He is but a boy.”

“A little younger than yourself. When he is a little older that will be of small account.”

Henry! Katharine was startled and a little afraid. She wanted to escape from Elvira, to think about this project.

That night she could not sleep. Henry haunted her thoughts and she was not sure whether she was pleased or afraid.

She waited for more news of this, but none came.

It was so difficult to know what was happening at home. There were only fragments of news she heard now and then. The war for Naples, in which her parents were engaged against the King of France, was not going well for them. That, she believed, was why the King of England was hesitating over her betrothal to his son. If the Sovereigns were in difficulties he could make a harsher bargain with them. He did not forget that only half her dowry had been paid.

So the months went by without much news. She found that she had very little money—not even enough to pay her servants. She was worried about Maria’s dowry, for there was no news from Spain about this.

The King of England said that she had no right to a third of the property of her late husband, because the second half of her dowry had not been paid. She needed new dresses, but there was no money to buy any. There was her plate and jewels, which represented thirty-five thousand crowns; could she pawn these? She dared not do so because she knew that they had been sent from home as part of her dowry; but if she had no money, what could she do?

There were times when she felt deserted, for she was not allowed to go to Court.

“She is a widow,” said the King of England. “It is well that she should live in seclusion for a while.”

Henry had his eyes on the Continent. It might be that, as the French seemed likely to score a victory over the Spaniards, a marriage for his son with France or with the House of Maximilian might be more advantageous than one with Spain.

Meanwhile, living in England was the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand—a Princess, but penniless, a wife but no wife, virtually a hostage for her parents’ good behavior.

It was no concern of his that she suffered poverty, said the King. He could not be expected to pay an allowance to the woman whose dowry had not been paid.

Puebla came to see her, shaking his head sadly. He also had received no money from Spain. It was fortunate that he had other means of making a living in England.

“They are using every maravedi for the wars, Highness,” he said. “We must perforce be patient.”

Katharine sometimes cried herself to sleep when her maids of honor had left her.

“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed, “what is happening at home? Why do you not send for me? Why do you not bring me out of this…prison?”

IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS. A whole year, thought Katharine, since she had come to England, and during that time she had married and become a widow; yet it seemed that she had been a prisoner in Durham House for a very long time.

She was not to join the Court at Richmond for the Christmas celebrations: She was a widow, in mourning. Moreover the King of England wished the Spanish Sovereigns to know that he was not showering honors on their daughter, since half her dowry was still owing to him and he was not very eager to make a further alliance with their House.

Maria de Rojas was fretful. “No news from home?” she was continually demanding. “How strange that the Queen does not answer your request about my marriage.” Maria was anxious, for shut up in Durham House she had no opportunity of seeing her lover. She wondered what was happening to him and whether he was still eager for the marriage.

Francesca declared that she would go mad if they had to remain in England much longer; even gentle Maria de Salinas was restive.

But the days passed, all so like each other that Katharine almost lost count of time except that she knew that with each passing week she owed the members of her household more and more, and that Christmas was coming and they would have no money for celebrations, for gifts or even to provide a little Christmas cheer for their table.

It was in November that Queen Elizabeth came to Durham House to call on Katharine.

Katharine was shocked when she saw Elizabeth, because she had changed a great deal since they had last met. The Queen was far advanced in pregnancy and she did not look healthy.

The Queen wished to be alone with Katharine, and as they sat together near the fire, Elizabeth said: “It distresses me to see you thus. I have come to tell you how sorry I am, and have brought food for your table. I know how you have been placed.”

“How kind you are!” said Katharine.

The Queen laid her hand over the Infanta’s. “Do not forget you are my daughter.”

“I fear the King does not think of me as such. I am sorry the dowry has not been paid. I am sure my parents would have paid it, if they were not engaged in war at this time.”

“I know, my dear. Wars…there seem always to be wars. We are fortunate in England. Here we have a King who likes not war, and I am glad of that. I have seen too much war in my life. But let us talk of more pleasant things. I could wish you were joining the Court for Christmas.”

“We shall do well enough here.”

“I envy you the quiet of Durham House,” said the Queen.

“Tell me when your child is expected.”

“In February.” The Queen shivered. “The coldest month.”

Katharine looked into the face of the older woman and saw there a resigned look; she wondered what it meant.

“I trust you will have a Prince,” Katharine murmured.

“Pray that I may have a healthy child. I have lost two at an early age. It is so sad when they live a little and then die. So much suffering…that one may endure more suffering.”

“You have three healthy children left to you. I have never seen such sparkling health as Henry’s.”

“Henry, Margaret and Mary…they all enjoy good health, do they not? My life has taught me not to hope for too much. But I did not come to talk of myself, but of you.”

“Of me!”

“Yes, of you. I guessed how you would be feeling. Here you live almost a prisoner, one might say, in a strange country, while plans are made for your future. I understand, for I have not had an easy life. There has been so much strife. I can remember being taken into the Sanctuary of Westminster by my mother. My little brothers were with us then. You have heard that they were lost to us…murdered, I dare swear. You see, I have come to tell you that I feel sympathy for you because I myself have suffered.”

“I shall never forget how kind you are.”

“Remember this: suffering does not last for ever. One day you will come out of this prison. You will be happy again. Do not despair. That is what I have come to say to you.”

“And you came through the cold to tell me that?”

“It may be my last opportunity.”

“I hope that I may come and see you when the child is born.”

The Queen smiled faintly and looked a little sad.

“Do not look like that,” Katharine cried out in sudden panic. She was thinking of her sister Isabella, who had come back to Spain to have her child, the little Miguel who had died before he was two years old. Isabella had had some premonition of death.

She expected some reproof from the Queen for her outburst, but Elizabeth of York, who knew what had happened to the young Isabella, understood full well the trend of her thoughts.

She stood up and kissed Katharine’s brow. That kiss was like a last farewell.

IT WAS CANDLEMAS-DAY and the cold February winds buffeted the walls of the Palace of the Tower of London, although the Queen was unaware of them.

She lay on her bed, racked by pain, telling herself: It will soon be over. And after this, should I live through it, there cannot be many more. If this could be a son…if only this could be a son!

Then briefly she wondered how many Queens had lain in these royal apartments and prayed: Let this be a son.

It must be a son, she told herself, for this will be the last.

She was trying to shake off this premonition which had been with her since she knew she was to have another child. If her confinement could have taken place anywhere but in this Tower of London she would have felt happier. She hated the place. Sometimes when she was alone at night she fancied she could hear the voices of her brothers calling her. She wondered then if they called her from some nearby grave.

This was a sign of her weakness. Edward and Richard were dead. Of that she was certain. The manner of their dying could be of little importance to them now. Would they come back to this troublous Earth even if they could? For what purpose? To denounce their uncle as a murderer? To engage in battle against their sister’s husband for the crown?

“Edward! Richard!” she whispered. “Is it true that somewhere within the gray walls of these towers your little bodies lie buried?”

A child was coming into the world. Its mother should not think of the other children—even though they were her own brothers—who had been driven out of it before their time.

Think of pleasant things, she commanded herself: Of rowing down the river with her ladies, with good Lewis Walter, her bargeman, and his merry watermen; think of the Christmas festivities at Richmond. The minstrels and the reciters had been more engaging than usual. She smiled, thinking of her chief minstrel who was always called Marquis Lorydon. What genius! What power to please! And the others—Janyn Marcourse and Richard Denouse—had almost as much talent as Lorydon. Her fool, Patch, had been in great form last Christmas; she had laughed lightheartedly at his antics with Goose, young Henry’s fool.

How pleased Henry had been because Goose had shone so brilliantly. It had pleased the boy because his fool was as amusing as those of the King and Queen.

Henry must always be to the fore, she mused. “Ah well, it is a quality one looks for in a King.”

There had been a pleasant dance too by a Spanish girl from Durham House. Elizabeth had rewarded her with four shillings and fourpence for her performance. The girl had been indeed grateful. Poor child, there were few luxuries at Durham House.

The Queen’s face creased into anxiety. Where will it all end? she asked herself. She thought of her son Henry, his eyes glistening with pride because his fool, Goose, could rival the fools of his parents. She thought of the lonely Infanta at Durham House.

The fate of Princes is often a sad one, she was thinking; and then there was no time for further reflection.

The child was about to be born, and there was nothing left for the Queen but her immediate agony.

THE ORDEAL WAS OVER, and the child lay in the cradle—a sickly child, but still a child that lived.

The King came to his wife’s bedside, and tried not to show his disappointment that she had borne a girl.

“Now we have one son and three bonny girls,” he said. “And we are young yet.”

The Queen caught her breath in fear. Not again, she thought. I could not endure all that again.

“Yes, we are young,” went on the King. “You are but thirty-seven, and I am not yet forty-six. We still have time left to us.”

The Queen did not answer that. She merely said: “Henry, let us call her Katharine.”

The King frowned, and she added: “After my sister.”

“So shall it be,” answered the King. It was well enough to name the child after Elizabeth’s sister Katharine, Lady Courtenay, who was after all the daughter of a King. He would not have wished the child to be named Katharine after the Infanta. Ferdinand and Isabella would have thought he was showing more favor to their daughter, and that would not have been advisable.

The bargaining had to go on with regard to their daughter; and he wanted them to know that it was they who must sue for favors now. He was still mourning for that half of the dowry which had not been paid.

He noticed that the Queen looked exhausted and, taking her hand, he kissed it. “Rest now,” he commanded. “You must take great care of yourself, you know.”

Indeed I must, she thought meekly. I have suffered months of discomfort and I have produced but a girl. I have to give him sons…or die in the attempt.

IT WAS A WEEK after the birth of the child when the Queen became very ill. When her women went into her chamber and found her in a fever they sent a messenger at once to the King’s apartments.

Henry in shocked surprise came hurrying to his wife’s bedside, for she had seemed to recover from the birth and he had already begun to assure himself that by this time next year she might be brought to bed of a fine boy.

When he looked at her he was horrified, and he sent at once for Dr. Hallyswurth, his best physician, who most unfortunately was at this time absent from the Court in his residence beyond Gravesend.

All through the day the King waited for the arrival of Dr. Hallyswurth, believing that, although other physicians might tell him that the Queen was suffering from a fever highly dangerous after childbirth, Dr. Hallyswurth would have the remedy which would save her life.

As soon as the doctor was found and the King’s message delivered he set out for the Court, but dusk had fallen when he came, lighted by torches into the precincts of the Tower.

He was taken at once to the Queen’s bedchamber, but, even as he took her hand and looked into her face, Elizabeth had begun to fight for her breath and the doctor could only sadly shake his head. A few minutes later Elizabeth sank back on her pillows. The daughter of Edward IV was dead.

Henry stared at her in sorrow. She had been a good wife to him. Where could he have found a better? She was but thirty-seven years of age. This dolorous day, February 11th of the year 1503, was the anniversary of her birth.

“Your Grace,” murmured Dr. Hallyswurth, “there was nothing that could have been done to save her. Her death is due to the virulent fever which often follows childbirth. She was not strong enough to fight it.”

The King nodded. Then he said: “Leave me now. I would be alone with my grief.”

THE BELLS OF ST. PAUL’S began to toll; and soon others joined in the dismal honor to the dead, so that all over London the bells proclaimed the death of the Queen.

In the Tower chapel she lay in state. Her body had been wrapped in sixty ells of holland cloth and treated with gums, balms, spices, wax and sweet wine. She had been enclosed by lead and put into a wooden coffin over which had been laid a black velvet pall with a white damask cross on it.

She had been carried into the lying-in-state chamber by four noblemen. Her sister Katharine, the Earl of Surrey and the Lady Elizabeth Stafford led the procession which followed the coffin; and when mass had been said, the coffin remained in the lighted chamber while certain ladies and men-at-arms kept vigil over it.

All through the long night they waited. They thought of her life and her death. How could they help it if they remembered those little boys, her brothers, who had been held in captivity in this very Tower and had been seen no more?

Where did their bodies lie now? Could it be that near this very spot, where their sister lay in state, those two little boys were hidden under some stone, under some stair?

A WEEK AFTER the death of Queen Elizabeth, the little girl, whose existence had cost the Queen her life, also died.

Here was another blow for the King, but he was not a man to mourn for long. His thoughts were busy on that day when his wife was carried to her tomb.

It was the twelfth day after her death and, after mass had been said, the coffin was placed on a carriage which was covered with black velvet. On the coffin a chair had been set up containing an image of the Queen, exact in size and detail; this figure had been dressed in robes of state and there was a crown on its flowing hair. About the chair knelt her ladies, their heads bowed in grief. Here they remained while the carriage was drawn by six horses from the Tower to Westminster.

The people had lined the streets to see the cortège pass and there were many to speak of the good deeds and graciousness of the dead Queen.

The banners which were carried in the procession were of the Virgin Mary, of the Assumption, of the Salutation and the Nativity, to indicate that the Queen had died in childbirth. The Lord Mayor and the chief citizens, all wearing the deepest mourning, took their places in the procession; and in Fenchurch Street and Cheapside young girls waited to greet the funeral carriage. There were thirty-seven of them—one for each year of the Queen’s life; they were dressed in white to indicate their virginity and they all carried lighted tapers.

When the cortège reached Westminster the coffin was taken into the Abbey, ready for the burial which would take place the next morning.

The King asked to be left alone in his apartments. He was genuinely distressed, because he did not believe that he could ever find a consort to compare with the one he had lost. She had had everything to give him—royal lineage, a right to the crown of England, beauty, docility and to some extent fertility.

Yet, there was little time in the life of kings for mourning. He was no longer a young romantic. That was for youth, and should never be for men who were destined for kingship.

He could not prevent his thoughts from going back to the past. He remembered now how, when Edward IV’s troops had stormed Pembroke Castle, he had been discovered there, a little boy five years old, with no one to care for him but his old tutor, Philip ap Hoell. He could recall his fear at that moment when he heard the rough tread of soldiers mounting the stairs and knew that his uncle, Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, had already fled leaving him, his little nephew, to the mercy of his enemies.

Sir William Herbert had been in charge of those operations, and it was well that he had brought his lady with him; for when she saw the friendless little boy she had scolded the men for daring to treat him as a prisoner, and had taken him in her arms and purred over him as though he were a kitten. That had been the strangest experience he had ever known until that time. Philip ap Hoell would have died for him, but their relationship had never been a tender one.

He recalled his life in the Herbert household. Sir William had become the Earl of Pembroke, for the title was taken from Uncle Jasper Tudor and bestowed on Sir William for services rendered to his King.

It had been strange to live in a large family; there were three sons and six daughters in the Herbert home, and one of these was Maud. There had been fighting during his childhood—the continual strife between York and Lancaster; and, when Lancastrian victory brought back the earldom and castle of Pembroke to Jasper Tudor, Henry was taken from the Herberts to live with his uncle once more.

He remembered the day when he had heard that Maud had been married to the Earl of Northumberland. That was a sad day; yet he did not despair; he had never been one to despair; he considered his relationship with Maud, and he was able to tell himself that, although he had loved her dearly, he loved all the Herberts; and if marriage with Maud was denied him he could still be a member of that beloved family by marrying Maud’s sister, Katharine.

And then fortune had changed. A more glorious marriage had been hinted at. Why should not the Tudor (hope of the Lancastrian House) marry the daughter of the King, for thus the red and white roses could flower side by side in amity?

He had then begun to know himself. He was no romantic boy—had never been a romantic boy. Had he wished to marry Maud that he might become a member of a family which had always seemed to him the ideal one, because from loneliness he had been taken into it by Lady Herbert and found youthful happiness there? Perhaps, since it had seemed that Katharine would do instead of Maud.

But the match with Elizabeth of York had been too glorious to ignore and he was ready to give up all thoughts of becoming a member of his ideal family, for the sake of a crown.

Life had never been smooth. There had been so many alarms, so many moments when it had seemed that his goal would never be reached. And while he had waited for Elizabeth he had found Katherine Lee, the daughter of one of his attendants—sweet gentle Katherine, who had loved him so truly that she had been ready to give him up when, by doing so, he could be free to marry the daughter of a King.

He was a cold man. He had been faithful to Elizabeth even though Katherine Lee had been one of her maids of honor. He saw her often, yet he had never given a sign that she was any more to him than any other woman of the Palace.

Now Elizabeth was dead, and she left him three children. Only three! He must beget more children. It was imperative.

Forty-six! That is not old. A man can still beget children at forty-six.

But there was little time to lose. He must find a wife quickly. He thought of all the weary negotiations. Time…precious time would be lost.

Then an idea struck him. There was a Princess here in England—she was young, personable and healthy enough to bear children.

What time would be saved! Time often meant money, so it was almost as necessary to save the former as the latter.

Why not? She would be agreeable. So would her parents. This halfhearted betrothal to a Prince of eleven—what was that, compared with marriage with a crowned King?

His mind was made up; his next bride would be Katharine of Aragon. The marriage should be arranged as quickly as possible; and then—more sons for England.

The next day Queen Elizabeth was laid in her grave; but the King’s thoughts were not with the wife whom he had lost but with the Infanta in Durham House who should take the place of the dead woman.