Catherine of Aragon Read Free Page A

and suckling pig) and then great cheeses and sweets (jellies and trifles and brandy-soaked cakes) – all served with an abundance of wine.
    And then – I still blush a little when I think of this – the time came for the last part of the ceremony. Arthur and Catherine were escorted upstairs in a rather drunken procession headed by the Earl of Oxford. There were several bishops as well, and boys swinging censers, and I don’t know how many noblemen (most of them friends of Arthur’s), laughing and making ribald jokes. Doña Elvira went as well, and so did I, together with Catherine’s maid Maria and quite a lot of Spanish courtiers. I knew what was to happen. Doña Elvira had explained that it was a religious ceremony, and I watched while we all stood round the damask-curtained bed with the royal coat of arms embroidered at its head. The covers had been turned down to expose the undersheet and pillows, and amid the chanting of prayers, the Earl of Oxford laid himself down, first on Arthur’s side of the bed then on Catherine’s, and holy water was sprinkled on the bed. I thought it would make it dreadfully damp, but Doña Elvira was crossing herself fervently and so was everyone else, so I joined in. Arthur was being slapped on the back by his friends. His face looked very pale, and he took another long draught of wine, but one of the bishops frowned and removed the goblet from his hand, speaking to him in a stern whisper.
    After that the crowd was shepherded out, though not without the shouting of some final bawdy jokes. I was not sure of their meaning – it’s something men laugh about between themselves – but I felt terribly embarrassed for Catherine, who throughout all this had stood with clasped hands and lowered eyes. Doña Elvira kissed her and said she must be of good courage. Then she, too, went out. Maria and I stayed as Catherine had asked us, and we went into a small adjoining room to help her undress. Two men-servants were doing the same for Arthur.
    Catherine was shivering although a fire burned in the bedroom. We slipped the fine lawn nightdress over her head (I had banded it with Italian reticella work at the neck and sleeves) and Maria offered her a silk shawl to put about her shoulders. Catherine shook her head. Her hands were clasped at her mouth, and I could not tell whether she was praying or blowing on her fingers. “You must go now,” she said. I hugged her, and could feel her body trembling, but she would never admit to being afraid.
    I am writing this in the small room which I share with Maria, who is asleep. I wonder what has happened to Catherine this night. We used to giggle so often about the things grown-ups did when they went to bed together, but neither of us could do more than guess what they got up to. We knew it resulted in the birth of a baby, but exactly how the baby was started remained a mystery to us. When I was twelve and one day found I was bleeding, my mother gave me cloths to use and said it showed I was now a woman – but I didn’t want to be a woman, I wanted to go on playing under the olive trees and having no cares.
    Tomorrow, the mystery will be explained, for Catherine will surely tell me.
    15th November 1501
    I have learned nothing. Arthur came from the bedchamber late this morning, baggy-eyed and looking as any boy will look who has drunk far too much wine on the night before, but he managed to grin for his back-slapping friends. “This night I have been in the midst of Spain,” he said, and they all cheered.
    I went in to Catherine, who was still in bed. She looked very tired. I sat down beside her and took her hand, and she shrugged in answer to my unspoken question. “He snores,” she said. “But he kissed me a lot.” And that was all she told me. It’s very disappointing.
    24th November 1501
    Uncle Rod was right about the Tudor determination to lay on a good show. The