The branches had been pollarded, trimmed close and trained along ropes, so they grew in straight lines out from the centre. Tiny green shoots had begun to appear between the bark, promising the green flowers that led to grapes. By the summer, they would be thick with leaves and fruit. It had felt strange to think of summer in the depths of winter, or even at the start of spring, as if such a concept was always just out of reach.
“Look, Thomasin.” Ellen turned to her cousin, but Thomasin was looking back down the path that led to the castle, along which two figures were slowly approaching, deep in conversation. First came the short, stout figure of Queen Catherine and then the round, equally short outline of the Imperial ambassador, Bishop Mendoza, marking her like a shadow. The sun fell upon the diamonds and pearls about the queen’s forehead and throat, and upon the sparkling stones on the bishop’s fingers.
At once, Thomasin and Ellen bowed their heads and curtseyed low.
Catherine of Aragon approached, dressed in an orange and gold gown, embroidered with pomegranates and roses. The gold laces were tight about her waist, and Spanish embroidery ringed her wrists, plump after years of the best food the court could offer, and the worst personal heartbreaks. She had borne six children, yet only one of them had survived beyond the first few weeks. And that one was a girl. A talented, smart, precocious girl, as many observed the Princess Mary to be, but a girl nevertheless, and girls could not rule kingdoms. It was this cruel hand of fortune that underpinned all the queen’s present troubles.
Catherine’s youthful beauty was still visible in the soft, round face framed by the gold gable bonnet. Her bright blue eyes and red-gold hair, with its grey streaks tucked away, betrayed her Plantagenet heritage, several generations back.
As the pair drew near, Catherine beckoned to the waiting women. “Ladies, please remove my fur collar, the sun proves warmer than I thought.” She turned her back and stood still while Thomasin and Ellen hurried to lift the veil on the back of her headdress and locate the ties that kept the fur in place.
Waiting beside her, Bishop Mendoza continued their conversation as if no one else were present. “Dear Lady, I have told you so many times. You are not to blame for this situation; it came about through no fault of your own. You have ever been a virtuous, dutiful, obedient wife, and you have weathered the storms it has pleased God to send you.”
The faltering marriage between King Henry and Queen Catherine was no longer a secret at court. After nineteen years together, the king had questioned its legality, recalling her marriage to his elder brother Arthur. The young prince Arthur had died, not yet reaching his sixteenth summer, and Catherine had always maintained that they had never shared a bed as man and wife. That she was a maid, pure and untouched, when she married Henry, eight years later. He had always believed her, until recently. Until he’d realised she would not give him a son.
Now Henry had turned to his ministers: the shrewd Cardinal Wolsey and his secretary, the slippery Thomas Cromwell, to find some precedent in canon law that could dissolve the union. Despite the court that had been convened at York Place last year, no resolution had been reached, the Pope had proved unwilling, and Catherine had refused to enter a nunnery. So the matter rumbled on, Catherine at Windsor, Henry and Anne at Westminster.
“But if I had followed my husband’s wishes more?” replied Catherine, shaking her head, so that Thomasin lost hold of the lace she was untying. “Perhaps I allied myself too closely with the emperor’s cause, made my interest in the Spanish match too clear, when I knew that the king favoured an alliance with the French?”
“It was natural for you to do so,” said Mendoza. “The emperor is your nephew, the son of your sister, and you have cared for him with something like the feelings of a mother.”
“I have done so. I have defended him as I would a son.”
“Even when he broke off his betrothal to the Princess Mary.”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “even then. And even when he married the Portuguese Princess. But if I had supported the king’s plans instead of speaking against the French, perhaps Henry would not be displeased with me. Perhaps if I wrote to him now…”
The bishop paused and wheezed. “No, no, no, My Lady, none of this is your doing. It is entirely a matter that has arisen in the mind of the king. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. Turn to God, ask for his forgiveness and help; it will be given to you.”
Thomasin finished untying her side of the laces and gently lifted the fur collar from around Catherine’s shoulders. She folded it towards Ellen, who placed it over her arm.
Catherine rolled her shoulders in relief and cast a quick look behind her.
“Keep close, in case I have need of it again.”
Thomasin and Ellen fell in step a little way behind the glittering pair, but still within earshot.
“Your connection with the emperor was worth strengthening,” continued Mendoza, “because he now has the Pope in his custody, and can command him as he needs, so the annulment will not be pronounced, no matter how many messengers the king might send.”
They turned the corner, by the primroses, which went unnoticed, heading back towards the Tower.
“I have heard,” said Catherine, looking up at the vast, round edifice that lay at the heart of the complex, “that Wolsey has applied for a commission to hold a papal trial in London.”
“He can apply, but the Pope is not in a position to grant it. Clement will procrastinate and make excuses in the hope that Henry will come to his senses.”
“That will only enrage Henry more. I fear for my daughter and her future.”
Mendoza leaned in, confidentially. “You know the Spanish will never allow harm to come to her. There would be an army of thousands, six or seven, ready to land on the south coast if the princess is put aside, and more would rise in England. You and Princess Mary are beloved of the people. Surely her father, who dotes on her, knows this? Surely he would never do so?”
Catherine was less convinced. “Once I would have agreed with you, but these days, I find I know him less and less. I had thought to write to my nephew again. He understands it is my calling to be Queen of England. God made this my destiny. I cannot turn away from his will, and I fear for my husband’s eternal soul if he persists in this course.”
“Now that England and France have declared war upon the emperor, you must not write. It would be considered treason to write to the king’s enemy, and you do not wish to give your enemies that excuse.”
Catherine thought hard. “Unless some secret way can be devised. A new cipher, a different messenger?”
“I do believe, My Lady, that the risk would be too great.”
She sighed and drew herself up to her full height. Although she was not a tall woman, Catherine was still regal in her bearing. “Then I will continue in my prayers, asking that my husband be removed from temptation.”
