Katharine, the Virgin Widow

Bad News from Spain

KATHARINE WAS HORRIFIED.

She sat with her maid of honor, staring at the embroidery in her hands, trying in vain to appear calm.

They tried to comfort her.

“He will not live very long,” said the incorrigible Francesca. “He is old.”

“He could live for twenty years more,” put in Maria de Rojas.

“Not he! Have you not noticed how pale he is…and has become more so? He is in pain when he walks.”

“That,” Maria de Salinas said, “is rheumatism, a disease which many suffer from in England.”

“He is such a cold man,” said Francesca.

“Hush,” Maria de Salinas reproved her, “do you not see that you distress the Infanta? Doubtless he would make a kind husband. At least he was a faithful one to the late Queen.”

Francesca shivered. “Ugh! I would rather such a man were unfaithful than show me too much attention.”

“I cannot believe that my mother will agree to this match,” Katharine exclaimed anxiously, “and unless she does, it will never take place.”

Maria de Salinas looked sadly at her mistress. There was no doubt that Queen Isabella loved her daughter and would be happy if she returned to Spain, but she would certainly give her blessing to the marriage if she considered it advantageous to Spain. Poor Infanta! A virgin widow preserved for an ageing man, whose rheumatism often made him irritable; a cold, dour man, who wanted her only because he wanted to keep a firm hand on her dowry and believed that she could give him sons.

THERE WAS NO NEWS from Spain. Each day, tense and eager, Katharine waited.

She knew that the affairs of her parents must be in dire disorder for them so to neglect their daughter. If only they would send for her. If she could sail back to Spain the treacherous seas would have no menace for her. She would be completely happy.

Never, she believed, had anyone longed for home as she did now.

Maria de Rojas was restive. Why did she never hear from the Sovereigns about their consent to her marriage? Why was there no reply regarding her dowry? Katharine had written again because she feared her first letter might not have reached her mother; but still there was no reply to the questions.

Francesca gave loud voice to her grievances; Maria was filled with melancholy. Only Maria de Salinas and Inez de Veñegas alternately soothed and scolded them. They were unhappy, but what of the Infanta? How much harder was her lot. Imagine, it might well be that she would have to submit to the will of the old King of England.

AT LAST CAME the news from Spain. Katharine saw the messengers arrive with the dispatches and had them brought to her immediately.

Her mother wrote as affectionately as ever, and the very sight of that beloved handwriting made the longing for home more intense.

Isabella did not wish her daughter to marry the King of England. She was eager for a match between Katharine and the young Prince of Wales. She was writing to the King of England suggesting that he look elsewhere for a bride.

Katharine felt limp with relief, as though she had been reprieved from a terrible fate.

Unless some satisfactory arrangement could be made for Katharine’s future in England, Isabella wrote, she would demand that her daughter be returned to Spain.

This made Katharine almost dizzy with happiness and, when her maids of honor came to her, they found her sitting at her table smiling dazedly at the letter before her.

“I am not to marry him,” she announced.

Then they all forgot the dignity due to an Infanta and fell upon her, hugging and kissing her.

At last Maria de Rojas said: “Does she give her consent to my marriage?”

“Alas,” Katharine told her, “there is no mention of it.”

HENRY SAT for a long time listening to Puebla’s account of his instructions from Spain. So the Sovereigns did not want him for a son-in-law. He read between the lines. They would be delighted if their daughter became the Queen of England, but he was old and she was young; they believed that he could not live for a great number of years and, when he died, she would be merely the Dowager Queen, who would play no part in state affairs. Moreover even as Queen, she would have no power, for Henry was not the man to allow a young wife to share in his counsels.

Isabella was emphatic in her refusal of this match.

“Her Highness,” Puebla told the King, “suggests that it might be well if the Infanta returned to Spain.”

This was high-handed indeed. Henry had no wish to send the Infanta back to Spain. With their daughter living in semiretirement in England he had some hold over the Sovereigns. He wanted the rest of her dowry, and he was determined to get it.

“These are matters not to be resolved in an hour,” replied Henry evasively.

“Her Highness suggests that, since you are looking for a wife, the Queen of Naples, now widowed, might very well suit you.”

“The Queen of Naples!” Henry’s eyes were momentarily narrowed. It was not a suggestion to be ignored. Such a marriage should give him a stake in Europe; so if the widow were young and handsome and likely to bear children, she would be a good match; and Henry, ever conscious of his age, was eager to marry soon.

He therefore decided to send an embassy to Naples immediately.

It was rather soon after his wife’s death and he did not wish to appear overeager.

Puebla was whispering: “The Infanta might write a letter to the Queen of Naples, to be delivered into her hands and hers alone. This would give some messenger on whom you could rely the opportunity of looking closely at the Queen.”

Henry looked with friendship on the Spaniard who had ever seemed a good friend to him.

It was an excellent idea.

“Tell her to write this letter at once,” he said. “You will find me a messenger on whom I can rely. I wish to know whether she be plump or lean, whether her teeth be white or black and her breath sweet or sour.”

“If Your Grace will leave this matter with me I will see that you have a description of the lady which shall not prove false. And, Your Grace, you will remember that it is the hope of the Sovereigns that there should be a betrothal between their daughter and the Prince of Wales.”

“The Prince of Wales is one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.”

“And therefore, Your Grace, well matched to the Infanta of Spain.”

Henry looked grave. “The wars in Europe would seem to be going more favorably for the French than the Spaniards. It might be well if the Infanta did return to Spain.”

Puebla shook his head. “If she returned, the Sovereigns would expect you to return with her the hundred thousand crowns which constituted half of her dowry.”

“I see no reason why I should do that.”

“If you did not, Your Grace, you would have a very powerful enemy in the Sovereigns. Where are your friends in Europe? Do you trust the French? And who in Europe trusts Maximilian?”

Henry was silent for a few moments. But he saw the wisdom of Puebla’s advice.

He said: “I will consider this matter.”

Puebla was jubilant. He knew that he had won his point. He would soon be writing to the Sovereigns to tell them that he had arranged for the betrothal of their daughter with the Prince of Wales.

PRINCE HENRY CAME IN, hot from the tennis court. With him were his attendants, boys of his own age and older men, all admiring, all ready to tell him that they had never seen tennis played as he played it.

He could never have enough of their praises and, although he knew they were flattery, he did not care. Such flattery was sweet, for it meant they understood his power.

Each day when he awoke—and he awoke with the dawn—he would remember that he was now his father’s only son and that one day there would be a crown on his head.

It was right and fitting that he should wear that crown. Was he not a good head taller than most of his friends? It was his secret boast that, if anyone had not known that he was the King’s heir, they would have selected him from any group as a natural leader.

It could not be long before he was King. His father was not a young man. And how he had aged since the death of the Queen! He was in continual pain from his rheumatism and was sometimes bent double with it. He was growing more and more irritable and Henry knew that many were longing for the day when there would be a new King on the throne—young, merry, extravagant, all that the old King was not.

Henry had no sympathy for his father, because he who had never felt a pain in his life could not understand pain. The physical disabilities of others interested him only because they called attention to his own superb physique and health.

Life was good. It always had been. But during Arthur’s lifetime there had been that gnawing resentment because he was not the firstborn.

He made his way now from the tennis court to the apartments of his sister Margaret. He found her there and her eyes were red from weeping. Poor Margaret! She was not the domineering elder sister today. He did feel a little sorry. He would miss her sorely.

“So tomorrow you leave us,” he said. “It will be strange not to have you here.”

Margaret’s answer was to put her arms about him and hug him tightly.

“Scotland!” she whimpered. “It is so cold there, I hear. The castles are so drafty.”

“They are drafty here,” Henry reminded her.

“There they are doubly so. And how shall I like my husband, and how will he like me?”

“You will rule him, I doubt not.”

“I hear he leads a most irregular life and has many mistresses.”

Henry laughed. “He is a King, if it is only King of Scotland. He should have mistresses if he wishes.”

“He shall not have them when he has a wife,” cried Margaret fiercely.

“You will make sure of that, I’ll swear. So there will only be one sister left to me now. And Mary is little more than a baby.”

“Always look after her, Henry. She is wayward and will need your care.”

“She will be my subject and I shall look after all my subjects.”

“You are not yet King, Henry.”

“No,” he murmured reflectively, “not yet.”

“I wish that the Infanta might be with us. It is sad to think of her in Durham House, cut off from us all. I should have liked to have had a sister of my own age to talk to. There would have been so much for us to discuss together.”

“She could tell you little of the married state,” said Henry. “Unless rumor lies, our brother never knew his wife. What a strange marriage that was!”

“Poor Katharine! I suffer for her. She felt as I feel now. To leave one’s home…to go to a strange country…”

“I doubt your James will be as mild as our brother Arthur.”

“No, it may be that he will be more like my brother Henry.”

Henry looked at his sister through narrowed eyes.

“They say,” went on Margaret, “that Katharine is to be your bride.”

“I have heard it.”

He was smiling. Margaret thought: He must have everything. Others marry, so he must marry. Already he seems to be contemplating his enjoyment of his bride.

“Well, what are you thinking?” Henry asked.

“If you are like this at twelve, what will you be at eighteen?”

Henry laughed aloud. “Much taller. I shall be the tallest English King. I shall stand over six feet. I shall outride all my subjects. I shall be recognized wherever I go as the King of England.”

“You do it as much as ever,” she said.

“What is that?”

“Begin every sentence with I.”

“And why should I not? Am I not to be the King?”

He was half laughing, but half in earnest. Margaret felt a new rush of sadness. She wished that she need not go to Scotland, that she could stay here in London and see this brother of hers mount the throne.

PUEBLA BROUGHT the news to Katharine. The little man was delighted. It seemed to him that what he had continued to work for during many difficult months was at last achieved. In his opinion there was only one way out of the Infanta’s predicament: marriage with the heir of England.

“Your Highness, I have at last prevailed upon the King to agree to your betrothal to the Prince of Wales.”

There had been many occasions when Katharine had considered this possibility, but now she was face to face with it and she realized how deeply it disturbed her.

She had at once to abandon all hope of returning home to Spain. She remembered too that she had been the wife of young Henry’s brother, and she felt therefore that the relationship between herself and Henry was too close. Moreover she was eighteen years old, Henry was twelve. Was not the disparity in their ages a little too great?

Yet were these the real reasons? Was she a little afraid of that arrogant, flamboyant Prince?

“When is this to take place?” she asked.

“The formal betrothal will be celebrated in the house of the Bishop of Salisbury in the near future.”

Katharine said quickly: “But I have been his brother’s wife. The affinity between us is too close.”

“The Pope will not withhold the Bull of Dispensation.”

There was no way out, Katharine realized, as she dismissed Puebla and went to her own apartment. She wanted to think of this alone, and not share it even with her maids of honor as yet.

She had escaped the father to fall to the son. She was certain that the King filled her with repugnance, but her feelings for young Henry were more difficult to analyze. The boy fascinated her as he seemed to fascinate everyone. But he was too bold, too arrogant.

He is only a boy, she told herself; and I am already a woman.

There came to her then an intense desire to escape, and impulsively she went to her table and sat down to write. This time she would write to her father, for she was sure of her mother’s support, and if she could move his heart, if she could bring him to ask her mother that she might return, Isabella would give way immediately.

How difficult it was to express these vague fears. She had never been able to express her emotions. Perhaps it was because she had always been taught to suppress them.

The words on the paper looked cold, without any great feeling.

“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England…”

She sat for some time staring at the words. Of what importance were her inclinations? She could almost hear her mother’s voice, gentle yet firm: “Have you forgotten, my dearest, that it is the duty of the daughters of Spain to subdue their own desires for the good of their country?”

What was the use? There was nothing to be done. She must steel herself, become resigned. She must serenely accept the fate which was thrust upon her.

She continued the letter:

“But I beg you do not consider my tastes or convenience, but in all things act as you think best.”

Then firmly she sealed the letter and, when her maids of honor came to her, she was still sitting with it in her hands.

She turned to them and spoke as though she were awakening from a dream. “I shall never again see my home, never again see my mother.”

THE HOT JUNE SUN beat down on the walls of the Bishop’s house in Fleet Street.

Inside that house Katharine of Aragon stood beside Henry, Prince of Wales, and was formally betrothed to him.

Katharine was thinking: It is irrevocable. When this boy is fifteen years old, I shall be past twenty. Can such a marriage be a happy one?

Henry studied his fiancée and was aware that she was not overjoyed at the prospect of their marriage. He was astounded, and this astonishment quickly turned to anger. How dared she not be overjoyed at the prospect! Here he was, the most handsome, the most popular and talented of Princes. Surely any woman should be overjoyed to contemplate marriage with him.

He thought of some of the girls he had seen about the Court. They were a constant provocation; they were very eager to please him and delighted when he noticed them. John Skelton was amused at such adventures, implying that they were worthy of a virile Prince. And this woman, who was not outstandingly beautiful, who had been his brother’s wife, dared to appear doubtful.

Henry looked at her coldly; when he took her hand he gave it no warm pressure; his small eyes were like pieces of flint; they had lost something of their deep blueness and were the color of the sea when a storm is brewing.

He was annoyed that he must go through with the betrothal. He wanted to snatch his hand away and say: “You do not care to marry me, Madam. Well, rest assured that affects me little. There are many Princesses in the world who would count you fortunate, but since you are blind to the advantage which is yours, let us have no betrothal.”

But there was his father, stern, pale, with the lines of pain etched on his face, and while he lived Prince Henry was only Prince of Wales, not King of England. It was doubly humiliating to realize that he dared not flout his father’s orders.

As for the King, he watched the betrothal with satisfaction. He was to keep the hundred thousand crowns which he had already received as the first payment of Katharine’s dowry and another hundred thousand crown would be paid on her marriage. Meanwhile she would receive nothing of that third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall, which was her right on her marriage to Arthur; although when she married Henry she would receive a sum equal to that.

This was very satisfactory, mused the King. Katharine would remain in England; he would keep the first half of the dowry; she would not receive the revenues due to her; and the betrothal was merely a promise that she should marry the heir to England; so that if the King should change his mind about that before the Prince reached his fifteenth birthday—well, it would not be the first time that a Prince and Princess had undergone a betrothal ceremony which was not followed by a wedding.

Yes, very satisfactory. Thus he could keep what he had, maintain a truce with the Sovereigns of Spain, and shelve the marriage for a few years.

Now he was only waiting to hear from Naples. His own marriage was of more urgency than that of his son.

Out into the June sunshine of Fleet Street came a satisfied King, a sullen Prince and an apprehensive Princess.

NOW THAT KATHARINE was formally betrothed to the Prince of Wales, she could not be allowed to live in seclusion at Durham House, and life became more interesting for her.

The maids of honor were delighted by the turn of events because it meant that now they could go occasionally to Court. There was activity in their apartments as they hastily reviewed their wardrobes and bewailed the fact that their gowns were shabby and not of the latest fashion.

Katharine was upset. Badly she needed money. Her parents had written that they could send her nothing, because they needed everything they could lay their hands on to prosecute the war, and military events were not going well for Spain. Katharine must rely on the bounty of her father-in-law.

It had been uncomfortable having to rely on the bounty of a miser. And it was the fact that she was unable to pay her servants that had upset Katharine most.

But now that she was betrothed to his son, the King could no longer allow her to live in penury, and grudgingly he made her an allowance. This was relief, but as it was necessary to maintain a large household, and debts had been steadily mounting, the allowance was quickly swallowed up, and although the situation was relieved considerably, comparative poverty still prevailed at Durham House.

Doña Elvira was the only one who resented the change. She was jealous of her power and was becoming anxious to settle the matter of Maria de Rojas and Iñigo.

It was all very well to prevent letters, concerning Maria’s hoped-for marriage to the grandson of the Earl of Derby, from reaching the Sovereigns, but this was not arranging a match between Maria and Iñigo.

She had given Iñigo full power over the pages and he was continually seeking the company of the maids of honor—Maria de Rojas in particular. He was not popular however and Hernan Duque complained of his insolent manner.

This infuriated Elvira, who promptly wrote off to Isabella declaring that, if she were to be responsible for the Infanta’s household, she could not have interference from their Highnesses’ ambassadors and envoys.

Isabella, who put complete trust in Elvira as her daughter’s guardian, wrote reprovingly to Hernan Duque; and this so delighted Elvira that she became more domineering than ever.

Katharine was growing weary of Elvira’s rule. She was no longer a child and she felt that it was time that she herself took charge of her own household. She began by commanding Juan de Cuero to hand over some of her plate and jewels, which she pawned in order to pay her servants’ wages.

When Elvira heard of this she protested, but Katharine was determined to have her way in this matter.

“These are my jewels and plate,” she said. “I shall do with them as I will.”

“But they are part of the dowry which you will bring to your husband.”

“I will use them instead of the revenues I was to have received from my late husband,” answered Katharine. “The jewels and plate will not be needed until I am married to the Prince of Wales. Then I shall receive an amount similar to that which I have had to renounce. I shall redeem the jewels with that.”

Doña Elvira could not believe that her hold on Katharine was slackening, nor that it was possible for her to be defeated in any way.

So she continued, as determined as ever to govern the household, not realizing that Katharine was growing up.

KATHARINE FOUND Maria de Rojas in a state of despondency.

“What ails you, Maria?”

Maria blurted out that she had met her lover at the Court and that he was less ardent.

“What could one expect?” demanded Maria. “All this time we have waited, and your mother ignores your requests on my behalf.”

“It seems so very strange to me,” said Katharine. “It is unlike her to ignore such a matter, for she would clearly see it as her duty to look to the welfare of my attendants.”

Katharine pondering the matter remembered that Iñigo was hoping for Maria, and that Doña Elvira approved of his choice. That was certain, for he would never have dared show it if that had not been so.

Katharine said slowly: “I will write to my mother again, and this time I will send the letter by a secret messenger—not through the usual channels. It has occurred to me, Maria, that something—or someone—may have prevented my mother from receiving those letters.”

Maria lifted her head and stared at her mistress.

Understanding dawned in Maria’s eyes.

THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN; the secret messenger was found. A few days after he had left—far too soon to hope for a reply to that letter—Katharine, seated at her window, saw a courier arrive and knew that he brought dispatches from Spain.

It was six months since her betrothal to Henry in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house in Fleet Street, and now that she had become accustomed to the idea that she must marry young Henry she had come to terms with life. The slight relief which the new turn of affairs had brought to her living standards was welcome, and life was far more tolerable.

She found that she could speak English fairly fluently now, and as she grew accustomed to her country of adoption she was even growing fond of it.

News from Spain always made her heart leap with hope and fear; and this message was obviously an important one. There was an urgency about the courier as he leaped from his saddle and, not even glancing at the groom who took his horse, hurried into the house.

She did not wait for him to be brought to her, but went down to meet him. She was determined now that letters should come direct to her, and that they should not first pass through the hands of Doña Elvira.

She came into the hall and saw the courier standing there. Doña Elvira was already there. The courier looked stricken, and when she saw that Doña Elvira had begun to weep, a terrible anxiety came to Katharine.

“What has happened?” she demanded.

The courier opened his mouth as though he were trying to speak but could not find the words. Doña Elvira was holding a kerchief to her eyes.

“Tell me…quickly!” cried Katharine.

It was Doña Elvira who spoke. She lowered her kerchief and Katharine saw that her face was blotched with tears, and that this was no assumed grief.

“Your Highness,” she began. “Oh…my dearest Highness…this is the most terrible calamity which could befall us. How can I tell you…knowing what she meant to you? How can I be the one?”

Katharine heard her own voice speaking; she whispered: “Not…my mother!”

There was no answer, so she knew it was so. This was indeed the greatest calamity.

“She is sick? She is ill? She has been sick for so long. If she had not been sick…life would have been different here. She would never have allowed…”

She was talking…talking to hold off the news she feared to hear.

Doña Elvira had recovered herself. She said: “Highness, come to your apartment. I will look after you there.”

“My mother…” said Katharine. “She is…”

“God rest her soul!” murmured Elvira. “She was a saint. There will be rejoicing in Heaven.”

“It is so then?” said Katharine piteously. She was like a child pleading: Tell me it is not so. Tell me that she is ill…that she will recover. What can I do if she is not there? She has always been there…even though we were parted. How can I live with the knowledge that she is gone…that she is dead?

“She has passed peacefully to her rest,” said Doña Elvira. “Her care for you was evident right at the end. The last thing she did was to have the Bull of Dispensation brought to her. She knew before she died that an affinity with Arthur could not stand in the way of your marriage with Henry. She satisfied herself that your future was assured and then…she made her will and lay down to die.”

Katharine turned away, but Elvira was beside her.

“Leave me,” said Katharine. “I wish to be alone.”

Elvira did not insist and Katharine went to her room. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains so that she felt shut in with her grief.

“She has gone,” she said to herself. “I have lost the dearest friend I ever had. No one will ever take her place. Oh God, how can I endure to stay in a world where she is not?”

Then she seemed to hear that voice reproving her—stern yet kind, so serene, so understanding always. “When your time comes, my daughter, you will be taken to your rest. Until that time you must bear the tribulations which God sees fit to lay upon you. Bear them nobly, Catalina, my dear one, because that is what I would have you do.”

“I will do all that you wish me to,” said Katharine.

Then she closed her eyes and began to pray, pray for courage to bear whatever life had to offer her, courage to live in a world which no longer contained Isabella of Castile.