21ST APRIL 1509

“The king is dead,” Fuensalida the ambassador wrote briefly to Catalina, knowing that she would not receive him in person, knowing that she would never forgive him for stealing her dowry and naming her as a pretender, for telling her that her father had abandoned her. “I know you will not see me but I have to do my duty and warn you that on his deathbed the king told his son that he was free to marry whomever he chooses. If you wish me to commission a ship to take you home to Spain I have personal funds to do so. Myself, I cannot see that you will gain anything by staying in this country but insult, ignominy, and perhaps danger.”

“Dead,” Catalina said.

“What?” one of her ladies asked.

Catalina crumpled the letter into her hand. She never trusted anyone with anything now. “Nothing,” she said. “I am going for a walk.”

María de Salinas stood up and put Catalina’s patched cloak about her shoulders. It was the same cloak that she had worn wrapped around her in the winter cold when she and Arthur had left London for Ludlow, seven years earlier.

“Shall we come with you?” María offered, without enthusiasm, glancing at the gray sky beyond the windows.

“No.”


I pound alongside the river, the graveled walk pricking the soles of my feet through the thin leather, as if I am trying to run away from hope itself. I wonder if there is any chance that my luck might change, might be changing now. The king who wanted me, and then hated me for refusing him, is dead. They said he was sick; but God knows, he never weakened. I thought he would reign forever. But now he is dead. Now he has gone. It will be the prince who decides.

I dare not touch hope. After all these years of fasting, I feel as if hope would make me drunk if I had so much of a drop of it on my lips. But I do hope for just a little taste of optimism, just a little flavor which is not my usual diet of grim despair.

Because I know the boy, Harry. I swear I know him. I have watched him as a falconer wakes with a tired bird. Watched him, and judged him, and checked my judgment against his behavior again and again. I have read him as if I were studying my catechism. I know his strengths and his weaknesses, and I think I have faint, very faint, reason for hope.

Harry is vain. It is the sin of a young boy and I do not blame him for it, but he has it in abundance. On the one hand this might make him marry me, for he will want to be seen to be doing the right thing—honoring his promise, even rescuing me. At the thought of being saved by Harry, I have to stop in my stride and pinch my nails into the palms of my hands in the shelter of my cloak. This humiliation too I can learn to bear. Harry may want to rescue me and I shall have to be grateful. Arthur would have died of shame at the thought of his little braggart brother rescuing me; but Arthur died before this hour, my mother died before this hour: I shall have to bear it alone.

But equally, his vanity could work against me. If they emphasize the wealth of Princess Eleanor, the influence of her Hapsburg family, the glory of the connection to the Holy Roman Emperor—he may be seduced. His grandmother will speak against me and her word has been his law. She will advise him to marry Princess Eleanor and he will be attracted—like any young fool—to the idea of an unknown beauty.

But even if he wants to marry her, it still leaves him with the difficulty of what to do with me. He would look bad if he sent me home. Surely he cannot have the gall to marry another woman with me still in attendance at court? I know that Harry would do anything rather than look foolish. If I can find a way to stay here until they have to consider his marriage, then I will be in a strong position indeed.

I walk more slowly, looking around me at the cold river, the passing boatmen huddled in their winter coats against the cold. “God bless you, Princess!” calls out one man, recognizing me. I raise my hand in reply. The people of this odd, fractious country have loved me from the moment they scrambled to see me in the little port of Plymouth. That will count in my favor too with a prince new-come to his throne and desperate for affection.

Harry is not mean with money. He is not old enough yet to know the value of it, and he has always been given anything he might want. He will not bicker over the dowry and the jointure. I am sure of that. He will be disposed to make a lordly gesture. I shall have to make sure that Fuensalida and my father do not offer to ship me home to make way for the new bride. Fuensalida despaired long ago of our cause. But now I do not. I shall have to resist his panic and my own fears. I must stay here to be in the field. I cannot draw back now.

Harry was attracted to me once, I know that. Arthur told me of it first, said that the little boy liked leading me into my wedding, had been dreaming that he was the bridegroom and I was his bride. I have nurtured his liking, every time I see him I pay him particular attention. When his sister laughs at him and disregards him, I glance his way, ask him to sing for me, watch him dance with admiration. On the rare occasions that I have caught a moment with him in private, I ask him to read to me and we discuss our thoughts on great writers. I make sure that he knows that I find him illuminating. He is a clever boy; it is no hardship to talk with him.

My difficulty always has been that everyone else admires him so greatly that my modest warmth can hardly weigh with him. Since his grandmother My Lady the King’s Mother declares that he is the handsomest prince in Christendom, the most learned, the most promising, what can I say to compare? How can one compliment a boy who is already flattered into extreme vanity, who already believes that he is the greatest prince the world has known?

These are my advantages. Against them I could list the fact that he has been destined for me for six years and he perhaps sees me as his father’s choice and a dull choice at that. That he has sworn before a bishop that I was not his choice in marriage and that he does not want to marry me. He might think to hold to that oath, he might think to proclaim he never wanted me and deny the oath of our betrothal. At the thought of Harry announcing to the world that I was forced on him and now he is glad to be free of me, I pause again. This too I can endure.

These years have not been kind to me. He has never seen me laughing with joy, he has never seen me smiling and easy. He has never seen me dressed other than poorly and anxious about my appearance. They have never called me forwards to dance before him or to sing for him. I always have a poor horse when the court is hunting and sometimes I cannot keep up. I always look weary and I am always anxious. He is young and frivolous and he loves luxury and fineness of dress. He might have a picture of me in his mind as a poor woman, a drag upon his family, a pale widow, a ghost at the feast. He is a self-indulgent boy; he might decide to excuse himself from his duty. He is vain and lighthearted and might think nothing of sending me away.

But I have to stay. If I leave, he will forget me in a moment. I am certain of that, at least. I have to stay.


Fuensalida, summoned to the king’s council, went in with his head held high, trying to seem unbowed, certain that they had sent for him to tell him to leave and take the unwanted Infanta with him. His high Spanish pride, which had so much offended them so very often in the past, took him through the door and to the Privy Council table. The new king’s ministers were seated around the table; there was a place left empty for him in the plumb center. He felt like a boy, summoned before his tutors for a scolding.

“Perhaps I should start by explaining the condition of the Princess of Wales,” he said diffidently. “The dowry payment is safely stored, out of the country, and can be paid in—”

“The dowry does not matter,” one of the councilors said.

“The dowry?” Fuensalida was stunned into silence. “But the princess’s plate?”

“The king is minded to be generous to his betrothed.”

There was a stunned silence from the ambassador. “His betrothed?”

“Of the greatest importance now is the power of the King of France and the danger of his ambitions in Europe. It has been thus since Agincourt. The king is most anxious to restore the glory of England. And now we have a king as great as that Henry, ready to make England great again. English safety depends on a three-way alliance between Spain and England and the emperor. The young king believes that his wedding with the Infanta will secure the support of the King of Aragon to this great cause. This is, presumably, the case?”

“Certainly,” said Fuensalida, his head reeling. “But the plate—”

“The plate does not matter,” one of the councilors repeated.

“I thought that her goods—”

“They do not matter.”

“I shall have to tell her of this…change…in her fortunes.”

The Privy Council rose to their feet. “Pray do.”

“I shall return when I have…er…seen her. ”Pointless, Fuensalida thought, to tell them that she had been so angry with him for what she saw as his betrayal that he could not be sure that she would see him. Pointless to reveal that the last time he had seen her he had told her that she was lost and her cause was lost and everyone had known it for years.

He staggered as much as walked from the room, and almost collided with the young prince. The youth, still not yet eighteen, was radiant. “Ambassador!”

Fuensalida threw himself back and dropped to his knee. “Your Grace! I must…condole with you on the death of…”

“Yes, yes.” He waved aside the sympathy. He could not make himself look grave. He was wreathed in smiles, taller than ever. “You will wish to tell the princess that I propose that our marriage takes place as soon as possible.”

Fuensalida found he was stammering with a dry mouth. “Of course sire.”

“I shall send a message to her for you,” the young man said generously. He giggled. “I know that you are out of favor. I know that she has refused to see you, but I am sure that she will see you for my sake.”

“I thank you,” the ambassador said. The prince waved him away. Fuensalida rose from his bow and went towards the princess’s chambers. He realized that it would be hard for the Spanish to recover from the largesse of this new English king. His generosity, his ostentatious generosity, was crushing.


Catalina kept her ambassador waiting, but she admitted him within the hour. He had to admire the self-control that set her to watch the clock when the man who knew her destiny was waiting outside to tell her.

“Emissary,” she said levelly.

He bowed. The hem of her gown was ragged. He saw the neat, small threads where it had been stitched up and then worn ragged again. He had a sense of great relief that whatever happened to her after this unexpected marriage, she would never again have to wear an old gown.

“Dowager Princess, I have been to the Privy Council. Our troubles are over. He wants to marry you.”

Fuensalida had thought she might cry with joy, or pitch into his arms, or fall to her knees and thank God. She did none of these things. Slowly, she inclined her head. The tarnished gold leaf on the hood caught the light. “I am glad to hear it,” was all she said.

“They say that there is no issue about the plate.” He could not keep the jubilation from his voice.

She nodded again.

“The dowry will have to be paid. I shall get them to send the money back from Bruges. It has been in safekeeping, Your Grace. I have kept it safe for you.” His voice quavered, he could not help it.

Again she nodded.

He dropped to one knee. “Princess, rejoice! You will be Queen of England.”

Her blue eyes when she turned them to him were hard, like the sapphires she had sold long ago. “Emissary, I was always going to be Queen of England.”


I have done it. Good God, I have done it. After seven endless years of waiting, after hardship and humiliation, I have done it. I go into my bedchamber and kneel before my prie-dieu and close my eyes. But I speak to Arthur, not to the risen Lord.

“I have done it,” I tell him. “Harry will marry me, I have done as you wished me to do.”

For a moment I can see his smile. I can see him as I did so often when I glanced sideways at him during dinner and caught him smiling down the hall to someone. Before me again is the brightness of his face, the darkness of his eyes, the clear line of his profile. And more than anything else, the scent of him, the very perfume of my desire.