Prince Arthur was riding south from Wales. His father had commanded him to come with all possible speed for he wished them to be together to greet the Infanta.
Arthur was very uneasy. He was to be married. What would that mean? What was his bride like? He was terrified of marriage. There were obligations which he might not be able to fulfil. He was tired—he had always been tired for as long as he remembered. Too much was expected of him; and when he could escape the eyes of his father and his father’s ministers he was always relieved.
But all the time he had been in Wales this fate had been hanging over him. Marriage . . . It was hard enough being the Prince of Wales but to be expected to be a husband as well seemed almost too much for him to endure. He was spitting a little blood now. He did not want his father or mother to know; it drove his mother to despair and his father to look so anxious that he felt he was being reproached for his weakness.
I should never have been Prince of Wales, he often thought. How much better it would have been if Henry had been born before me. Henry could do everything that was expected of a Prince of Wales and what was so important liked doing it. Nothing pleased Henry more than to be at the center of affairs, to have everyone looking at him; he enjoyed answering their questions; he could dance, ride, hawk, hunt . . . do anything better than Arthur. Even at his books he excelled. There was only one thing he lacked. He was not the firstborn. And he resented that. Arthur had often seen the flashes of anger in his brother’s eyes, that sudden pout of the rather small mouth when Arthur was given precedence, as being Prince of Wales he always was; even at three years old he had been made a Knight of the Bath and two years later Knight of the Garter.
He was better at his studies than he was at outdoor sports. It was the one field in which he could beat Henry, in spite of the fact that Henry was no dullard and his tutors spoke highly of his ability to learn. But Henry of course had interests which Arthur could never have; Arthur loved his studies, he liked nothing better than to be allowed to sit with his tutor and read and discuss what he read and studied. His father had put the blind Poet Laureate Bernard André to teach him and they had become great friends. Another tutor and friend was Dr. Linacre who was a doctor besides being a classical scholar. Arthur wondered whether his father had appointed Dr. Linacre to keep a watch on his health as well as his studies. If this was so the doctor performed this duty very discreetly. He was some forty years old at this time and he seemed to Arthur full of widsom, having traveled widely in Italy and he had even attained a degree in Padua. He was considered to be one of the most learned men in the realm.
He had dedicated a translation from the Greek into Latin of Proclus on the Sphere to Arthur who felt very privileged to claim such a man as his friend. Oddly enough although he felt inadequate in the company of Court gallants he was quite at home with men like Dr. Linacre and Bernard André. He wished he could go on sharing his life with such people, but he had his duties—as his father was fond of reminding him—and now those duties entailed marriage with the Spanish Princess. She had arrived in England and his sojourn in Wales had come to an end.
“I am riding from Shene to meet her,” was the command his father had sent. “It would be well if you were to join me just before that meeting takes place.”
So he had begun the journey to London without delay, and at East Hampstead he joined his father’s cavalcade.
The King was delighted with the way everything had happened. At last the Infanta was in England and there could be no turning back now. Friendship with Spain was assured; and the dowry would be useful. Henry’s eyes glistened as he thought of that. His great anxiety was Arthur’s health. He had been disturbed to hear that the Infanta’s brother had died shortly after his marriage. Had he overexerted himself? It was a way with these young people and if they were not very strong it could be disastrous. It was difficult to imagine Arthur’s taking violent action in such a sphere but one could never be sure. This bride and bridegroom could be delayed for a little while . . . a few months . . . a year perhaps. His son the young Prince Edmund had died recently; that meant he had only two boys. True Henry was virile enough, but one could never be sure when people would sicken so he and the Queen must get more children. More boys.
When he rode into East Hampstead he was pleased to find that Arthur was there.
He watched his son approach and kneel. The greeting was formal. Henry found it difficult to be otherwise. But his smile was as warm as could be expected. Arthur looked at him almost apologetically. Did the boy know how wan he looked, that there were dark shadows under his eyes and how much the pallor of his skin alarmed the King?
“I see you in good health, my son,” he said.
“Yes, my lord,” answered Arthur a little too eagerly.
“That is well. We have some duties ahead of us. The Sovereigns will expect a fine wedding for their daughter. Are you eager to meet your bride?”
Arthur said again with that emphasis which was a little too firm: “I am indeed, my lord.”
“That is well, and I’ll swear she is as eager to meet you. We shall set out tomorrow morning at dawn . . . and we shall soon intercept her, I doubt not.”
Perhaps the boy would look better after a rest, thought the King. Of course he was tired out after the journey. Perhaps it would be better if the marriage were not consummated . . . just yet. Let them wait a year or so . . . Arthur would be stronger then.
“The Infanta is at Dogmersfield,” said the King. “Tomorrow we shall set out to meet her. I am sure you are overcome with eagerness.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Arthur spoke quietly. He hated to lie to his father but duty demanded that he should. How could he tell his father that he hated the prospect and his dearest wish was that he could have a quiet life free from his obligations.
“Then we shall rest well tonight,” said the King, “and set off with the dawn.”
Arthur gratefully retired. The King was very uneasy. Every time he saw Arthur he thought he looked a little more frail.
When next morning they set out it had started to rain. The King’s anxious eyes were on Arthur. The boy would get a wetting and the doctors had said that was not good for him; it started up his cough.
There was more trouble to come. Before they reached the Bishop’s Palace at Dogmersfield where Katharine was spending the night, they were met by de Ayala and a group of his entourage.
De Ayla rode up to the King and the two men confronted each other in the rain.
“My lord King,” said de Ayala. “Is it true that you are coming to visit the Infanta?”
“Indeed it is,” replied Henry. “My son is anxious to greet his bride. You look surprised. Do you not understand that we are all eagerness to welcome the Infanta to our shores?”
“I know it so, my lord. But the Spanish law is that none shall see the Infanta unveiled until the marriage has been celebrated.”
“My lord, you cannot be telling me that I am not allowed to look on my son’s bride.”
“That is what I do say, my lord, and you must forgive me but it is the law in Spain.”
“It is not in England,” said the King grimly.
“My lord, our Infanta is the daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain and she is accustomed to Spanish laws and customs.”
“She will perforce learn to accept our English ones, for when she marries she will be one of us.”
“The ceremony has not yet taken place.”
The King was aghast. He had part of the dowry. That was the first thought that struck him. What was it about the Infanta that they were afraid of his seeing? Was she deformed in some way? Was she incapable of bearing children? He must not see her! What absurd custom was this? They were behaving like infidels. Of course, their country had been the home of the Moors for centuries. Perhaps some of their customs had been preserved in Spain. But this was England and he was the King and none of his subjects should defy him.