“They have a dispensation from the Pope.”
“She is not . . .” I clench my hands into fists; I cannot explain to him. “You don’t know her. She is ambitious—it is the throne that she wants, not Harry. My lady grandmother does not . . . I do not . . . She is proud. She is not fit. She will never fill my mother’s shoes.”
Gently he takes my hands. “Harry will have to take your father’s place, she will have to take your mother’s place. Not in your heart, of course. But on the throne. England has to have a king and queen and it will be Harry and Katherine of Aragon. God bless them and keep them.”
“Amen,” I say sulkily, but I cannot mean it, and I do not mean it.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1509
As the snow clings on to the peaks of our high Scots hills, and the icy winds strip the blossom from the fruit trees, I think of the two of them in England in this, Harry’s first miraculous summer, glorying in the titles they won by mischance: king and queen, beneficiaries of the deaths of their betters. I think of Katherine, saying it was her destiny, and waiting and biding her time. I think of her saying that she would outlast my father, and now she has done so. I think that there is no true love there, only ambition and vanity. Harry has stolen his brother’s wife; Katherine has captured the heir of England. I think they are despicable, both of them, and that there is no true grief when a younger boy wears his dead brother’s shoes and a widow throws off mourning.
And then another messenger comes from England with urgent news. My lady grandmother has died. They say that she overate at the coronation feast—soothing her grief with roasted cygnet; but I think that perhaps she had nothing to live for, once she saw her grandson to the throne and knew that her great work for the Tudors—both public and secret—was done, knowing we will have and keep the throne forever. I try to feel a sense of loss for the grandmother who ruled me so strictly, but my mind keeps returning to the thought that, with the old lady gone, Katherine will be unchallenged mistress of the court and there will be no one to rule over her. Not even my mother was allowed in the queen’s rooms—they were always reserved for My Lady the King’s Mother. But Katherine will do better than my mother: she will be a queen without a mother-in-law overshadowing her, free to do whatever she wants. Certainly, Harry won’t know how to manage her. She will behave as if she were a queen in her own right, just like her unwomanly mother, Isabella of Castile. She will be triumphant, leaping from poverty to queenship on Harry’s whim. She will think herself the victor of everything, she will think herself the favorite of God Himself. Her mother called herself a “conquistadora”; Katherine has been raised to ride roughshod over everyone.
I write to Mary:
I am sure that the coronation and the wedding were very grand and I am sure that you enjoyed it; but you must be a good sister to Katherine and remind her to be grateful to Harry for raising her to this great position, when she had sunk so very low. Our brother has been generous to recognize his betrothal to her when he was not bound to do so. You should caution her against pride and greed in her new position. Of course, I rejoice in her extraordinary rise to power but we would not be good sisters if we did not warn her against the sin of ambition, and rivalry with us who are Tudors born.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, AUTUMN 1509
James has ambassadors at Harry’s new court and they report that, just as I feared, the young couple are spending lavishly on clothes, celebrations, jousts, and music. There is dancing every night and apparently Henry composes songs for his own choristers, and poetry. My pregnancy is not an easy one, and the nausea that comes with my condition is worsened, I swear, by the reports of Katherine dancing in gowns of cloth of gold, the curtains in her box at the joust sewn all over with little gold letters of K and H, her pomegranate crest carved on every stone boss, her barge with silk curtains, her fantastic horses, her beautiful wardrobe, her greedy purchases of jewels.
I am so avid for reports of the most extravagantly beautiful court in Europe that people think I love to hear of my brother’s happiness. I show them a weak smile, I say “yes.” All this is troubling enough, but news of my sister Mary’s wealth and freedom is even worse for me. She will be completely unsupervised—for Katherine will never command her—and Harry will just drown her in jewels and fine gowns to show her off. Everyone tells me she is the most beautiful princess in all of Europe. Harry will use her as a puppet to show the crown jewels; he will have her portrait painted and send it all round Christendom to flaunt how beautiful she is. I imagine bets are already being taken on the likelihood of her jilting Charles of Castile and marrying another applicant, if they can find anyone grander. I really don’t think I can bear to see another picture of another betrothal. I can’t bear to get another letter from Mary boasting of her betrothal gifts—that ruby! And they will not make her return it, I am sure.
Katherine herself writes to me. It is her first letter adorned with the royal seal on the bottom. I find it unspeakably irritating:
We have always been sisters and now I am your sister and a sister-queen. Your brother and I have mourned your dear father and your good grandmother and we are very happy together. We should be so glad if you could make a visit to court next summer when the roads are good.
You will want to have news of your little sister. She lives with us at court and I think every day she grows more beautiful. I am so happy that she is betrothed to my family and so when she leaves us she will go to my former home and I know how they will delight in her fair skin and golden hair and the beauty of her sweet nature. She shares my wardrobe and my jewels and sometimes we dance together in the evenings, and people exclaim at the picture that we make: they call us Grace and Beauty—so silly. She will write to you next. I am trying to keep her to her studies—but you know how playful and naughty she is.
I hope soon that you two will be royal aunts to a little prince. Yes, I am with child! I will be so glad to give your brother a son and heir. How blessed we are! I pray for you daily, and I know that you think of me and our sister Mary and my dear husband, your brother the king. I know that you must feel, as we all do, that our dark years are behind us and we three must pray for our blessings to continue. God bless you, Sister.
Katherine
I grit my teeth. I write in reply. I say how pleased I am for her. I explain that I am sick in the mornings but some people say that this proves it is to be a boy. I say that they give me broth of beef. I am not afraid of childbirth, having faced it before, and also I am so young, only nineteen. It is so much safer to have babies when you are a young mother, everyone says so. And how is Katherine feeling? How is she at the age of twenty-three? Carrying her first child at twenty-three?