Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (42 page)

Easily she moved into his arms and felt his whole body stiffen at her touch. Gracefully, she stepped back, as if modestly shrinking but kept one hand on his shoulder to encourage him to press forwards until the bed was behind her. Then she let herself lean back until she was on the pillows, smiling up at him, and she could see his blue eyes darken with desire.

“I have wanted you since I first saw you,” he said breathlessly. He stroked her hair, her neck, her naked shoulder, with a hurried touch, wanting all of her, at once.

She smiled. “And I, you.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“I dreamed that it was me that married you that day.” He was flushed, breathless.

Slowly, she untied the ribbons at the throat of her nightgown, letting the silky linen fall apart so that he could see her throat, her round firm
breasts, her waist, the dark shadow between her legs. Harry gave a little groan of desire at the sight of her. “It might as well have been,” she whispered. “I have had no other. And we are married now, at last.”

“Ah, God, we are,” he said longingly. “We are married now, at last.”

He dropped his face into the warmth of her neck. She could feel his breath coming fast and urgent in her hair, his body was pushing against hers, Catalina felt herself respond. She remembered Arthur’s touch and gently bit the tip of her tongue to remind herself never, never to say Arthur’s name out loud. She let Harry push against her, force himself against her and then he was inside her. She gave a little rehearsed cry of pain but she knew at once, in a heart thud of dread, that it was not enough. She had not cried out enough, her body had not resisted him enough. She had been too warm, too welcoming. It had been too easy. He did not know much, this callow boy, but he knew that it was not difficult enough.

He checked, even in the midst of his desire. He knew that something was not as it should be. He looked down at her. “You
are
a virgin,” he said uncertainly. “I hope that I do not hurt too much.”

But he knew that she was not. Deep down, he knew that she was no virgin. He did not know much, this overprotected boy, but he knew this. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that she was lying.

She looked up at him. “I was a virgin until this moment,” she said, managing the smallest of smiles. “But your potency has overcome me. You are so strong. You overwhelmed me.”

His face was still troubled, but his desire could not wait. He started to move again, he could not resist the pleasure. “You have mastered me,” she encouraged him. “You are my husband, you have taken your own.” She saw him forget his doubt in his rising desire. “You have done what Arthur could not do,” she whispered.

They were the very words to trigger his desire. The young man gave a groan of pleasure and fell down on to her, his seed pumping into her, the deed undeniably done.

*     *     *

He doesn’t question me again. He wants so much to believe me that he does not ask the question, fearing that he might get an answer he doesn’t like. He is cowardly in this. He is accustomed to hearing the answers he wants to hear and he would rather an agreeable lie than an unpalatable truth.

Partly it is his desire to have me, and he wants me as I was when he first saw me: a virgin in bridal white. Partly it is to disprove everyone who warned him against the trap that I had set for him. But more than anything else: he hated and envied my beloved Arthur and he wants me just because I was Arthur’s bride, and—God forgive him for a spiteful, envious, second son—he wants me to tell him that he can do something that Arthur could not do, that he can have something that Arthur could not have. Even though my beloved husband is cold under the nave of Worcester Cathedral, the child that wears his crown still wants to triumph over him. The greatest lie is not in telling Harry that I am a virgin. The greatest lie is in telling him that he is a better man, more of a man than his brother. And I did that too.

In the dawn, while he is still sleeping, I take my penknife and cut the sole of my foot, where he will not notice a scar, and drip blood on the sheet where we had lain, enough to pass muster for an inspection by My Lady the King’s Grandmother or any other bad-tempered, suspicious enemy who might still seek to discomfort me. There is to be no showing of the sheets for a king and his bride; but I know that everyone will ask, and it is best that my ladies can say that they have all seen the smear of blood and that I am complaining of the pain.

In the morning, I do everything that a bride should do. I say I am tired, and I rest for the morning. I smile with my eyes looking downwards as if I have discovered some sweet secret. I walk a little stiffly and I refuse to ride out to hunt for a week. I do everything to indicate that I am a young woman who has lost her virginity. I convince everyone. And besides, no one wants to believe anything other.

The cut on my foot is sore for a long, long time. It catches me every time I step into my new shoes, the ones with the great diamond buckles. It is like a reminder to me of the lie I promised Arthur that I would tell. Of the great lie that I will live, for the rest of my life. I don’t mind the sharp little nip of pain when I slide my right foot into my shoe. It is nothing to the pain that is hidden deep inside me when I smile at the unworthy boy who is king and call him, in my new admiring voice: “husband.”

*     *     *

S
UMMER
1509

Harry woke in the night and his quiet stillness woke Catalina.

“My lord?” she asked.

“Go to sleep,” he said. “It’s not yet dawn.”

She slipped from the bed and lit a taper in the red embers of the fire, then lit a candle. She let him see her, nightgown half open, her smooth flanks only half hidden by the fall of the gown. “Would you like some ale? Or some wine?”

“A glass of wine,” he said. “You have one too.”

She put the candle in the silver holder and came back to the bed beside him with the wineglasses in her hand. She could not read his face, but suppressed her pang of irritation that, whatever it was, she had to be woken, she had to inquire what was troubling him, she had to demonstrate her concern. With Arthur she had known in a second what he wanted, what he was thinking. But anything could distract Harry—a song, a dream, a note thrown from the crowd. Anything could trouble him. He had been raised to be accustomed to sharing his thoughts, accustomed to guidance. He needed an entourage of friends and admirers, tutors, mentors, parents. He liked constant conversation. Catalina had to be everyone to him.

“I have been thinking about war,” he said.

“Oh.”

“King Louis thinks he can avoid us, but we will force war on him. They tell me he wants peace, but I will not have it. I am the King of England, the victors of Agincourt. He will find me a force to be reckoned with.”

She nodded. Her father had been clear that Harry should be encouraged in his warlike ambitions against the King of France. He had written to her in the warmest of terms as his dearest daughter and advised her that any war between England and France should be launched, not on the north coast—where the English usually invaded—but on the borders between France and Spain. He suggested that the English should reconquer the region of Aquitaine which would be glad to be free of France and would rise up to meet its liberators. Spain would be in strong support. It would be an easy and glorious campaign.

“In the morning I am going to order a new suit of armor,” Harry said. “Not a suit for jousting, I want heavy armor, for the battlefield.”

She was about to say that he could hardly go to war when there was so much to do in the country. The moment that an English army left for France, the Scots, even with an English bride on their throne, were certain to take advantage and invade the north. The whole tax system was riddled with greed and injustice and must be reformed, there were
new plans for schools, for a king’s council, for forts and a navy of ships to defend the coast. These were Arthur’s plans for England, they should come before Harry’s desire for a war.

“I shall make my grandmother regent when I go to war,” Harry said. “She knows what has to be done.”

Catalina hesitated, marshaling her thoughts. “Yes indeed,” she said. “But the poor lady is so old now. She has done so much already. Perhaps it might be too much of a burden for her?”

He smiled. “Not her! She has always run everything. She keeps the royal accounts, she knows what is to be done. I don’t think anything would be too much for her as long as it kept us Tudors in power.”

“Yes,” Catalina said, gently touching on his resentment. “And see how well she ruled you! She never let you out of her sight for a moment. Why, I don’t think she would let you go out even now if she could prevent you. When you were a boy, she never let you joust, she never let you gamble, she never let you have any friends. She dedicated herself to your safety and your well-being. She could not have kept you closer if you had been a princess.” She laughed. “I think she thought you were a princess and not a lusty boy. Surely it is time that she had a rest? And you had some freedom?”

His swift, sulky look told her that she would win this.

“Besides”—she smiled—“if you give her any power in the country she will be certain to tell the council that you will have to come home, that war is too dangerous for you.”

“She could hardly stop me going to war,” he bristled. “I am the king.”

Catalina raised her eyebrows. “Whatever you wish, my love. But I imagine she will stop your funds, if the war starts to go badly. If she and the Privy Council doubt your conduct of the war they need do nothing but sit on their hands and not raise taxes for your army. You could find yourself betrayed at home—betrayed by her love, I mean—while you are attacked abroad. You might find that the old people stop you doing what you want. Like they always try to do.”

He was aghast. “She would never work against me.”

“Never on purpose,” Catalina agreed with him. “She would always think she was serving your interest. It is just that . . .”

“What?”

“She will always think that she knows your business best. To her, you will always be a little boy.”

She saw him flush with annoyance.

“To her you will always be a second son, the one who came after Arthur. Not the true heir. Not fitted for the throne. Old people cannot change their minds, cannot see that everything is different now. But really, how can she ever trust your judgment, when she has spent her life ruling you? To her, you will always be the youngest prince, the baby.”

“I shall not be limited by an old woman,” he swore.

“Your time is now,” Catalina agreed.

“D’you know what I shall do?” he demanded. “I shall make you regent when I go to war! You shall rule the country for me while I am gone. You shall command our forces at home. I would trust no one else. We shall rule together. And you will support me as I require. D’you think you could do that?”

She smiled at him. “I know I can. I won’t fail,” she said. “I was born to rule England. I shall keep the country safe while you are away.”

“That’s what I need,” Harry said. “And your mother was a great commander, wasn’t she? She supported her husband. I always heard that he led the troops but she raised the money and raised the army?”

“Yes,” she said, a little surprised at his interest. “Yes, she was always there. Behind the lines, planning his campaigns and making sure he had the forces he needed, raising funds and raising troops, and sometimes she was in the very forefront of the battles. She had her own armor, she would ride out with the army.”

“Tell me about her,” he said, settling himself down in the pillows. “Tell me about Spain. About what it was like when you were a little girl in the palaces of Spain. What was it like? In—what is it called—the Alhambra?”

It was too close to what had been before. It was as if a shadow had stretched over her heart. “Oh, I hardly remember it at all,” she said, smiling at his eager face. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Go on. Tell me a story about it.”

“No. I can’t tell you anything. D’you know, I have been an English princess for so long, I could not tell you anything about it at all.”

*     *     *

In the morning Harry was filled with energy, excited at the thought of ordering his suit of armor, wanting a reason to declare war at once. He woke her with kisses and was on her, like an eager boy, while she was waking. She held him close, welcomed his quick, selfish pleasure, and
smiled when he was up and out of bed in a moment, hammering at the door and shouting for his guards to take him to his rooms.

“I want to ride before Mass today,” he said. “It is such a wonderful day. Will you come with me?”

“I’ll see you at Mass,” Catalina promised him. “And then you can breakfast with me, if you wish.”

“We’ll take breakfast in the hall,” he ruled. “And then we must go hunting. It is too good weather not to take the dogs out. You will come, won’t you?”

“I’ll come,” she promised him, smiling at his exuberance. “And shall we have a picnic?”

“You are the best of wives!” he exclaimed. “A picnic would be wonderful. Will you tell them to get some musicians and we can dance? And bring ladies, bring all your ladies, and we shall all dance.”

She caught him before he went out of the door. “Harry, may I send for Lady Margaret Pole? You like her, don’t you? Can I have her as a lady-in-waiting?”

He stepped back into the room, caught her into his arms and kissed her heartily. “You shall have whoever you want to serve you. Anyone you want, always. Send for her at once, I know she is the finest of women. And appoint Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, too. She is returning to court after her confinement. She has had another girl.”

“What will she call her?” Catalina asked, diverted.

“Mary, I think. Or Anne. I can’t remember. Now, about our dance . . .”

She beamed at him. “I shall get a troupe of musicians and dancers and if I can order soft-voice zephyrs I will do that too.” She laughed at the happiness in his face. She could hear the tramp of his guard coming to the door. “See you at Mass!”