Arthur

Chapter 5

Elizabeth of York; St. Paul’s Cathedral /London, England. November 14th of 1501

I looked at my son, remembering the day he was born.

I remembered when I first looked at him, my precious baby, my son, England’s rose. I watched him as he entered the Church, in his golden clothes, pale and silent. I could only imagine how nervous my boy was. I knew it, because it was exactly how I felt the day I got married.

He stood up in the altar, the whole court looking at him. My husband looked proudly, smiling at the match he had arranged. Henry had been negotiating that marriage for over ten years. There were innumerous contracts, documents and clauses. He needed that marriage, I knew that. Even though our son was precious or being the child of York and Lancaster, the one who would bring peace to our country, he was not safe. And God, I knew that very well.

I sighed and looked away; sometimes, it was far too difficult for me to bear with the court life, with the decisions that had been made in order to keep us in the throne. My mother taught me that only God can fairly take a man’s life, but we do it too often for my taste. We claim it is God’s will, but I can’t help but to wonder if it is indeed.

Before the Infanta arrived, Henry made a decision that deeply hurt me and ashamed me. My cousin, Edward Plantagenet, was beheaded in that damned bloody Tower. When I was given the news, I felt a deep pain in my heart. Edward was the Earl of Warwick, the only son of my uncle, George of Clarence, sister to my dear cousin Margaret Pole. The boy was a simple man, he had absolutely no wits to ever claim a throne. I never saw him as a threat to me, my husband or my children. He was content with his condition and fate. But Henry was always afraid of claimants.

That enraged me more than I could ever admit. He told me guiltless that it was his duty to protect his crown from claimants. If I could, God knows, I would have told him he was a claimant himself, a successful one, but nonetheless, a claimant. He was not supposed to be King; he was not born a prince. Many had to die for him to become King.

I just bit my lips and turned away from him. My cousin Edward was imprisoned and killed simply for having Plantagenet blood, my blood. And, to be fair, he had a bigger claim than my own husband, as well as Margaret Pole’s sons.

Margaret Beaufort, my mother-in-law, was standing by my side, proud as if she was queen herself. It was also her deed. She had dedicated her entire life to make her son King of England, and seeing her grandson marrying the most desirable and wealthy bride of Europe was surely a big stoke on her pride.

I was not entirely sure if my son had been informed about what had happened to our kinsman. I surely hoped not, at least not yet. I knew that was an important day to Arthur when I saw his face when Catalina of Aragón entered the Church, escorted by my proud son Harry, smiling as if he was the groom himself. The Infanta was indeed a beauty; she dressed magnificently in a Spanish blue gown, wearing sapphires that matched perfectly with her eyes. Her long red hair was loose on her shoulders, falling down her back. She held herself very high and proudly, still with a sweet smile. I had not yet seen her before, but once I laid my eyes on her, I immediately felt a great affection for that girl, as if she was my own daughter.

She looked briefly at me from the altar, and I nodded with a smile. I was relieved; my son was marrying a good girl. She was not one of those empty, vain princesses that only cared about dresses, jewelry and balls. That girl had something more; there was something about Catalina that reminded me of my mother. That girl was born to be Queen. If she was the one who would get my crown once I part from this world, I could not be more content.

For the first time in months, I smiled genuinely; I did not even pay attention in my irritating mother-in-law criticizing the Infanta, nor my husband complaining about Arthur’s stillness, nor even my children’s jealousy. I could only see the Prince and the Princess of Wales, my son and his new wife. They both looked nervous and pale, God bless them. I knew it was not easy to be in their shoes. But I knew Catalina was the right woman.

Seeing my son smiling nervously at the new Princess of Wales as he took her hand warmed my heart; however, I could not put aside the terrible cold feeling that I had when he was born.

“Protect my son, Melusina. Protect my Arthur… And protect his Catalina.”