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I was dreading the wedding, the moment when I would have to say the words of the marriage vows that I had said to Arthur. But in the end the service was so unlike that glorious day in St Paul’s Cathedral that I could go through it with Harry before me, and Arthur locked away in the very back of my mind. I was doing this for Arthur, the very thing he had commanded, the very thing that he had insisted on – and I could not risk thinking of him.

There was no great congregation in a cathedral, there were no watching ambassadors, or fountains flowing with wine. We were married within the walls of Greenwich Palace in the church of the Friars Observant, with only three witnesses and half a dozen people present.

There was no rich feasting or music or dancing, there was no drunkenness at court or rowdiness. There was no public bedding. I had been afraid of that – the ritual of putting to bed and then the public showing of the sheets in the morning; but the prince – the king, I now have to say – is as shy as me, and we dine quietly before the court and withdraw together. They drink our healths and let us go. His grandmother is there, her face like a mask, her eyes cold. I show her every courtesy, it doesn’t matter to me what she thinks now. She can do nothing. There is no suggestion that I shall be living in her chambers under her supervision. On the contrary she has moved out of her rooms for me. I am married to Harry. I am Queen of England and she is nothing more than the grandmother of a king.

My ladies undress me in silence, this is their triumph too, this is their escape from poverty as well as mine. Nobody wants to remember the night at Oxford, the night at Burford, the nights at Ludlow. Their fortunes as much as mine depend on the success of this great deception. If I asked them, they would deny Arthur’s very existence.

Besides, it was all so long ago. Seven long years. Who but I can remember that far back? Who but I ever knew the delight of waiting for Arthur, the firelight on the rich-coloured curtains of the bed, the glow of candlelight on our entwined limbs? The sleepy whispers in the early hours of the morning: ‘Tell me a story!’

They leave me in one of my dozen exquisite new nightgowns and withdraw in silence. I wait for Harry, as long ago I used to wait for Arthur. The only difference is the utter absence of joy.

The men-at-arms and the gentlemen of the bedchamber brought the young king to the queen’s door, tapped on it and admitted him to her rooms. She was in her gown, seated by the fireside, a richly embroidered shawl thrown over her shoulders. The room was warm, welcoming. She rose as he came in and swept him a curtsey.

Harry lifted her up with a touch on her elbow. She saw at once that he was flushed with embarrassment, she felt his hand tremble.

‘Will you take a cup of wedding ale?’ she invited him, she made sure that she did not think of Arthur bringing her a cup and saying it was for courage.

‘I will,’ he said. His voice, still so young, was unsteady in its register. She turned away to pour the ale so he should not see her smile.

They lifted their cups to each other. ‘I hope you did not find today too quiet for your taste,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I thought with my father newly dead we should not have too merry a wedding. I did not want to distress My Lady, his mother.’

She nodded but said nothing.

‘I hope you are not disappointed,’ he pressed on. ‘Your first wedding was so very grand.’

Catalina smiled. ‘I hardly remember it, it was so long ago.’

He looked pleased at her reply, she noted. ‘It was, wasn’t it? We were all little more than children.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Far too young to marry.’

He shifted in his seat. She knew that the courtiers who had taken Hapsburg gold would have spoken against her. The enemies of Spain would have spoken against her. His own grandmother had advised against this wedding. This transparent young man was still anxious about his decision, however bold he might try to appear.

‘Not that young; you were fifteen,’ he reminded her. ‘A young woman.’

‘And Arthur was the same age,’ she said, daring to name him. ‘But he was never strong, I think. He could not be a husband to me.’

Harry was silent and she was afraid she had gone too far. But then she saw the glimpse of hope in his face.

‘It is indeed true then, that the marriage was never consummated?’ he asked, colouring up in embarrassment. ‘I am sorry…I wondered…I know they said…but I did wonder…’

‘Never,’ she said calmly. ‘He tried once or twice but you will remember that he was not strong. He may have even bragged that he had done it, but, poor Arthur, it meant nothing.’

‘I shall do this for you,’ I say fiercely, in my mind, to my beloved. ‘You wanted this lie. I shall do it thoroughly. If it is going to be done, it must be done thoroughly. It has to be done with courage, conviction; and it must never be undone.’

Aloud, Catalina said: ‘We married in the November, you remember. December we spent most of the time travelling to Ludlow and were apart on the journey. He was not well after Christmas, and then he died in April. I was very sad for him.’

‘He was never your lover?’ Harry asked, desperate to be certain.

‘How could he be?’ She gave a pretty, deprecatory shrug that made the gown slip off one creamy shoulder a little. She saw his eyes drawn to the exposed skin, she saw him swallow. ‘He was not strong. Your own mother thought that he should have gone back to Ludlow alone, for the first year. I wish we had done that. It would have made no difference to me, and he might have been spared. He was like a stranger to me for all our marriage. We lived like children in a royal nursery. We were hardly even companions.’

He sighed as if he were free of a burden, the face he turned to her was bright. ‘You know, I could not help but be afraid,’ he said. ‘My grandmother said…’

‘Oh! Old women always gossip in the corners,’ she said, smiling. She ignored his widened eyes at her casual disrespect. ‘Thank God we are young and need pay no attention.’

‘So, it was just gossip,’ he said, quickly adopting her dismissive tone. ‘Just old women’s gossip.’

‘We won’t listen to her,’ she said, daring him to go on. ‘You are king and I am queen and we shall make up our own minds. We hardly need her advice. Why – it is her advice that has kept us apart when we could have been together.’

It had not struck him before. ‘Indeed,’ he said, his face hardening. ‘We have both been deprived. And all the time she hinted that you were Arthur’s wife, wedded and bedded, and I should look elsewhere.’

‘I am a virgin, as I was when I came to England,’ she asserted boldly. ‘You could ask my old duenna or any of my women. They all knew it. My mother knew it. I am a virgin untouched.’

He gave a little sigh as if released from some worry. ‘You are kind to tell me,’ he said. ‘It is better to have these things in the light, so we know, so we both know. So that no-one is uncertain. It would be terrible to sin.’

‘We are young,’ she said. ‘We can speak of such things between ourselves. We can be honest and straightforward together. We need not fear rumours and slanders. We need have no fear of sin.’

‘It will be my first time too,’ he admitted shyly. ‘I hope you don’t think the less of me?’

‘Of course not,’ she said sweetly. ‘When were you ever allowed to go out? Your grandmother and your father had you mewed up as close as a precious falcon. I am glad that we shall be together, that it will be the first time, for both of us, together.’

Harry rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘So, we shall have to learn together,’ he said. ‘We shall have to be kind to each other. I don’t want to hurt you, Catalina. You must tell me if anything hurts you.’

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 over-protected 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 pen-knife 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’.

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 wine glasses 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 armour,’ Harry said. ‘Not a suit for jousting, I want heavy armour, 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, marshalling 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 wellbeing. 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 judgement, 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 armour, 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 armour, 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!’

I married him for Arthur, for my mother, for God, for our cause, and for myself. But in a very little while I have come to love him. It is impossible not to love such a sweet-hearted, energetic, good-natured boy as Harry, in these first years of his reign. He has never known anything but admiration and kindness, he expects nothing less. He wakes happy every morning, filled with the confident expectation of a happy day. And, since he is king, and surrounded by courtiers and flatterers, he always has a happy day. When work troubles him or people come to him with disagreeable complaints he looks around for someone to take the bother of it away from him. In the first few weeks it was his grandmother who commanded; slowly, I make sure that it is to me that he hands the burdens of ruling the kingdom.

The Privy Councillors learn to come to me to ascertain what the king would think. It is easier for them to present a letter or a suggestion, if he has been prepared by me. The courtiers soon know that anything that encourages him to go away from me, anything that takes the country away from the alliance with Spain will displease me, and Harry does not like it when I frown. Men seeking advantage, advocates seeking help, petitioners seeking justice, all learn that the quickest way to a fair, prompt decision is to call first at the queen’s rooms and then wait for my introduction.

I never have to ask anyone to handle him with tact. Everyone knows that a request should come to him as it were fresh, for the first time. Everyone knows that the self-love of a young man is very new and very bright and should not be tarnished. Everyone takes a warning from the case of his grandmother who is finding herself put gently and implacably to one side, because she openly advises him, because she takes decisions without him, because once – foolishly – she scolded him. Harry is a king so careless that he will hand over the keys of his kingdom to anyone he trusts. The trick for me is to make sure that he trusts only me.

I make sure that I never blame him for not being Arthur. I taught myself – in the seven years of widowhood – that God’s will was done when He took Arthur from me, and there is no point in blaming those who survive when the best prince is dead. Arthur died with my promise in his ears and I think myself very lucky indeed that marriage to his brother is not a vow that I have to endure; but one I can enjoy.

I like being queen. I like having pretty things and rich jewels and a lap dog, and assembling ladies-in-waiting whose company is a pleasure. I like paying Maria de Salinas the long debt of her wages and watching her order a dozen gowns and fall in love. I like writing to Lady Margaret Pole and summoning her to my court, falling into her arms and crying for joy to see her again, and having her promise that she will be with me. I like knowing that her discretion is absolute; she never says one word about Arthur. But I like it that she knows what this marriage has cost me, and why I have done it. I like her watching me make Arthur’s England even though it is Harry on the throne.

The first month of marriage is nothing for Harry but a round of parties, feasts, hunts, outings, pleasure trips, boating trips, plays, and tournaments. Harry is like a boy who has been locked up in a school room for too long and is suddenly given a summer holiday. The world is so filled with amusement for him that the least experience gives him great pleasure. He loves to hunt – and he had never been allowed fast horses before. He loves to joust and his father and grandmother had never even allowed him in the lists. He loves the company of men of the world who carefully adapt their conversation and their amusements to divert him. He loves the company of women but – thank God – his childlike devotion to me holds him firm. He likes to talk to pretty women, play cards with them, watch them dance and reward them with great prizes for petty feats – but always he glances towards me to see that I approve. Always he stays at my side, looking down at me from his greater height with a gaze of such devotion that I can’t help but be loving towards him for what he brings me; and in a very little while, I can’t help but love him for himself.

He has surrounded himself with a court of young men and women who are such a contrast to his father’s court that they demonstrate by their very being that everything has changed. His father’s court was filled with old men, men who had been through hard times together, some of them battle-hardened; all of them had lost and regained their lands at least once. Harry’s court is filled with men who have never known hardship, never been tested.

I have made a point of saying nothing to criticise either him or the group of wild young men that gather around him. They call themselves the ‘Minions’ and they encourage each other in mad bets and jests all the day and – according to gossip – half the night too. Harry was kept so quiet and so close for all his childhood that I think it natural he should long to run wild now, and that he should love the young men who boast of drinking bouts and fights, and chases and attacks, and girls who they seduce, and fathers who pursue them with cudgels. His best friend is William Compton, the two go about with their arms around each other’s shoulders as if ready to dance or braced for a fight for half the day. There is no harm in William, he is as great a fool as the rest of the court, he loves Harry as a comrade, and he has a mock-adoration of me that makes us all laugh. Half of the Minions pretend to be in love with me and I let them dedicate verses and sing songs to me and I make sure that Harry always knows that his songs and poems are the best.

The older members of the court disapprove and have made stern criticisms of the king’s boisterous lads; but I say nothing. When the councillors come to me with complaints I say that the king is a young man and youth will have its way. There is no great harm in any one of the comrades; when they are not drinking, they are sweet young men. One or two, like the Duke of Buckingham who greeted me long ago, or the young Thomas Howard, are fine young men who would be an ornament to any court. My mother would have liked them. But when the lads are deep in their cups they are noisy and rowdy and excitable as young men always are and when they are sober they talk nonsense. I look at them with my mother’s eyes and I know that they are the boys who will become the officers in our army. When we go to war their energy and their courage are just what we will need. The noisiest, most disruptive young men in peacetime are exactly the leaders I will need in time of war.

Lady Margaret, the king’s grandmother, having buried a husband or two, a daughter-in-law, a grandson and finally her own precious prince, was a little weary of fighting for her place in the world and Catalina was careful not to provoke her old enemy into open warfare. Thanks to Catalina’s discretion, the rivalry between the two women was not played overtly – anyone hoping to see Lady Margaret abuse her granddaughter-in-law as she had insulted her son’s wife was disappointed. Catalina slid away from conflict.

When Lady Margaret tried to claim precedence by arriving at the dining-hall door a few footsteps before Catalina, a Princess of the Blood, an Infanta of Spain and now Queen of England, Catalina stepped back at once and gave way to her with such an air of generosity that everyone remarked on the pretty behaviour of the new queen. Catalina had a way of ushering the older woman before her that absolutely denied all rules of precedence and instead somehow emphasised Lady Margaret’s ungainly gallop to beat her granddaughter-in-law to the high table. They also saw Catalina pointedly step back, and everyone remarked on the grace and generosity of the younger woman.

The death of Lady Margaret’s son, King Henry, had hit the old lady hard. It was not so much that she had lost a beloved child; it was more that she had lost a cause. In his absence she could hardly summon the energy to force the Privy Councillors to report to her before going to the king’s rooms. Harry’s joyful excusing of his father’s debts and freeing of his father’s prisoners she took as an insult to his father’s memory, and to her own rule. The sudden leap of the court into youth and freedom and playfulness made her feel old and bad-tempered. She, who had once been the commander of the court and the maker of the rules, was left to one side. Her opinion no longer mattered. The great book by which all court events must be governed had been written by her; but suddenly, they were celebrating events that were not in her book, they invented pastimes and activities, and she was not consulted.

She blamed Catalina for all the changes she most disliked, and Catalina smiled very sweetly and continued to encourage the young king to hunt and to dance and to stay up late at night. The old lady grumbled to her ladies that the queen was a giddy, vain thing and would lead the prince to disaster. Insultingly, she even remarked that it was no wonder Arthur had died, if this was the way that the Spanish girl thought a royal household should be run.

Lady Margaret Pole remonstrated with her old acquaintance as tactfully as she could. ‘My lady, the queen has a merry court but she never does anything against the dignity of the throne. Indeed, without her, the court would be far wilder. It is the king who insists on one pleasure after another. It is the queen who gives this court its manners. The young men adore her and nobody drinks or misbehaves before her.’

‘It is the queen who I blame,’ the old woman said crossly. ‘Princess Eleanor would never have behaved like this. Princess Eleanor would have been housed in my rooms, and the place would have run by my rules.’

Tactfully, Catalina heard nothing; not even when people came to her and repeated the slanders. Catalina simply ignored her grand-mother-in-law and the constant stream of her criticism. She could have done nothing that would irritate her more.

It was the late hours that the court now kept that were the old lady’s greatest complaint. Increasingly, she had to wait and wait for dinner to be served. She would complain that it was so late at night that the servants would not be finished before dawn, and then she would retire before the court had even finished their dinner.

‘You keep late hours,’ she told Harry. ‘It is foolish. You need your sleep. You are only a boy; you should not be roistering all night. I cannot keep hours like this, and it is a waste of candles.’

‘Yes; but my lady grandmother, you are nearly seventy years old,’ he said patiently. ‘Of course you should have your rest. You shall retire whenever you wish. Catalina and I are only young. It is natural for us to want to stay up late. We like amusement.’

‘She should be resting. She has to conceive an heir,’ Lady Margaret said irritably. ‘She’s not going to do that bobbing about in a dance with a bunch of feather-heads. Masquing, every night. Whoever heard of such a thing? And who is to pay for all this?’

‘We’ve been married less than a month!’ he exclaimed, a little irritated. ‘These are our wedding celebrations. I think we can enjoy good pastimes, and keep a merry court. I like to dance.’

‘You act as if there was no end to money,’ she snapped. ‘How much has this dinner cost you? And last night’s? The strewing herbs alone must cost a fortune. And the musicians? This is a country that has to hoard its wealth, it cannot afford a spendthrift king. It is not the English way to have a popinjay on the throne, a court of mummers.’

Harry flushed, he was about to make a sharp retort.

‘The king is no spendthrift,’ Catalina intervened quickly. ‘This is just part of the wedding festivities. Your son, the late king, always thought that there should be a merry court. He thought that people should know that the court was wealthy and gay. King Harry is only following in the footsteps of his wise father.’

‘His father was not a young fool under the thumb of his foreign wife!’ the old lady said spitefully.

Catalina’s eyes widened slightly and she put her hand on Harry’s sleeve to keep him silent. ‘I am his partner and his help-meet, as God has bidden me,’ she said gently. ‘As I am sure you would want me to be.’

The old lady grunted. ‘I hear you claim to be more than that,’ she began.

The two young people waited. Catalina could feel Harry shift restlessly under the gentle pressure of her hand.

‘I hear that your father is to recall his ambassador. Am I right?’ She glared at them both. ‘Presumably he does not need an ambassador now. The King of England’s own wife is in the pay and train of Spain. The King of England’s own wife is to be the Spanish ambassador. How can that be?’

‘My lady grandmother…’ Harry burst out; but Catalina was sweetly calm.

‘I am a princess of Spain, of course I would represent the country of my birth to my country by marriage. I am proud to be able to do such a thing. Of course I will tell my father that his beloved son, my husband, is well, that our kingdom is prosperous. Of course I will tell my husband that my loving father wants to support him in war and peace.’

‘When we go to war…’ Harry began.

‘War?’ the old lady demanded, her face darkening. ‘Why should we go to war? We have no quarrel with France. It is only her father who wants war with France, no-one else. Tell me that not even you will be such a fool as to take us into war to fight for the Spanish! What are you now? Their errand boy? Their vassal?’

‘The King of France is a danger to us all!’ Harry stormed. ‘And the glory of England has always been…’

‘I am sure My Lady the King’s Grandmother did not mean to disagree with you, sire,’ Catalina said sweetly. ‘These are changing times. We cannot expect older people always to understand when things change so quickly.’

‘I’m not quite in my dotage yet!’ the old woman flared. ‘And I know danger when I see it. And I know divided loyalties when I see them. And I know a Spanish spy…’

‘You are a most treasured advisor,’ Catalina assured her. ‘And my lord the king and I are always glad of your advice. Aren’t we, Harry?’

He was still angry. ‘Agincourt was…’

‘I’m tired,’ the old woman said. ‘And you twist and twist things about. I’m going to my room.’

Catalina swept her a deep, respectful curtsey, Harry ducked his head with scant politeness. When Catalina came up the old woman had gone.

‘How can she say such things?’ Harry demanded. ‘How can you bear to listen to her when she says such things? She makes me want to roar like a baited bear! She understands nothing, and she insults you! And you just stand and listen!’

Catalina laughed, took his cross face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. ‘Oh, Harry, who cares what she thinks as long as she can do nothing? Nobody cares what she says now.’

‘I am going to war with France whatever she thinks,’ he promised.

‘Of course you are, as soon as the time is right.’

I hide my triumph over her, but I know the taste of it, and it is sweet. I think to myself that one day the other tormentors of my widowhood, the princesses, Harry’s sisters, will know my power too. But I can wait.

Lady Margaret may be old but she cannot even gather the senior people of court about her. They have known her forever, the bonds of kinship, wardship, rivalry and feud run through them all like veins through dirty marble. She was never well-liked: not as a woman, not as the mother of a king. She was from one of the great families of the country but when she leapt up so high after Bosworth she flaunted her importance. She has a great reputation for learning and for holiness but she is not beloved. She always insisted on her position as the king’s mother and a gulf has grown between her and the other people of the court.

Drifting away from her, they are becoming friends of mine: Lady Margaret Pole of course, the Duke of Buckingham and his sisters, Elizabeth and Anne, Thomas Howard, his sons, Sir Thomas and Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, dearest William Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, George Talbot, Sir Henry Vernon that I knew from Wales. They all know that although Harry neglects the business of the realm, I do not.

I consult them for their advice, I share with them the hopes that Arthur and I had. Together with the men of the Privy Council I am bringing the kingdom into one powerful, peaceful country. We are starting to consider how to make the law run from one coast to another, through the wastes, the mountains and forests alike. We are starting to work on the defences of the coast. We are making a survey of the ships that could be commanded into a fighting navy, we are creating muster rolls for an army. I have taken the reins of the kingdom into my hands and found that I know how it is done.

Statecraft is my family business. I sat at my mother’s feet in the throne room of the Alhambra Palace. I listened to my father in the beautiful golden Hall of the Ambassadors. I learned the art and the craft of kingship as I had learned about beauty, music, and the art of building, all in the same place, all in the same lessons. I learned a taste for rich tiling, for bright sunlight falling on a delicate tracery of stucco, and for power, all at the same time. Becoming a Queen Regnant is like coming home. I am happy as Queen of England. I am where I was born and raised to be.

The king’s grandmother lay in her ornate bed, rich curtains drawn close so that she was lulled by shadows. At the foot of the bed an uncomplaining lady-in-waiting held up the monstrance for her to see the body of Christ in its white purity through the diamond-cut piece of glass. The dying woman fixed her eyes on it, occasionally looking to the ivory crucifix on the wall beside the bed, ignoring the soft murmur of prayers around her.

Catalina kneeled at the foot of the bed, her head bowed, a coral rosary in her hands, praying silently. My Lady Margaret, confident of a hard-won place in heaven, was sliding away from her place on earth.

Outside, in her presence chamber, Harry waited for them to tell him that his grandmother was dead. The last link to his subordinate, junior childhood would be broken with her death. The years in which he had been the second son – trying a little harder for attention, smiling a little brighter, working at being clever – would all be gone. From now on, everyone he would meet would know him only as the most senior member of his family, the greatest of his line. There would be no articulate, critical old Tudor lady to watch over this gullible prince, to cut him down with one quiet word in the very moment of his springing up. When she was dead he could be a man, on his own terms. There would be no-one left who knew him as a boy. Although he was waiting, outwardly pious, for news of her death, inside he was longing to hear that she was gone, that he was at last truly independent, at last a man and a king. He had no idea that he still desperately needed her counsel.

‘He must not go to war,’ the king’s grandmother said hoarsely from the bed.

The lady-in-waiting gave a little gasp at the sudden clarity of her mistress’s speech. Catalina rose to her feet. ‘What did you say, my lady?’

‘He must not go to war,’ she repeated. ‘Our way is to keep out of the endless wars of Europe, to keep behind the seas, to keep safe and far away from all those princeling squabbles. Our way is keep the kingdom at peace.’

‘No,’ Catalina said steadily. ‘Our way is to take the crusade into the heart of Christendom and beyond. Our way is to make England a leader in establishing the church throughout Europe, throughout the Holy Land, to Africa, to the Turks, to the Saracens, to the edge of the world.’

‘The Scots…’

‘I shall defeat the Scots,’ Catalina said firmly. ‘I am well aware of the danger.’

‘I did not let him marry you for you to lead us to war.’ The dark eyes flared with fading resentment.

‘You did not let him marry me at all. You opposed it from the first moment,’ Catalina said bluntly. ‘And I married him precisely so that he should mount a great crusade.’ She ignored the little whimper from the lady-in-waiting, who believed that a dying woman should not be contradicted.

‘You will promise me that you will not let him go to war,’ the old lady breathed. ‘My dying promise, my deathbed promise. I lay it on you from my deathbed, as a sacred duty.’

‘No.’ Catalina shook her head. ‘Not me. Not another. I made one deathbed promise and it has cost me dearly. I will not make another. Least of all to you. You have lived your life and made your world as you wished. Now it is my turn. I shall see my son as King of England and perhaps King of Spain. I shall see my husband lead a glorious crusade against the Moors and the Turks. I shall see my country, England, take its place in the world, where it should be. I shall see England at the heart of Europe, a leader of Europe. And I shall be the one that defends it and keeps it safe. I shall be the one that is Queen of England, as you never were.’

‘No…’ the old woman breathed.

‘Yes,’ Catalina swore, without compromise. ‘I am Queen of England now and I will be till my death.’

The old woman raised herself up, struggled for breath. ‘You pray for me.’ She laid the order on the younger woman almost as if it were a curse. ‘I have done my duty to England, to the Tudor line. You see that my name is remembered as if I were a queen.’

Catalina hesitated. If this woman had not served herself, her son and her country, the Tudors would not be on the throne. ‘I will pray for you,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘And as long as there is a chantry in England, as long as the Holy Roman Catholic Church is in England, your name will be remembered.’

‘Forever,’ the old woman said, happy in her belief that some things could never change.

‘Forever,’ Catalina agreed.

Then, less than an hour later, she was dead; and I became queen, ruling queen, undeniably in command, without a rival, even before my coronation. No-one knows what to do in the court, there is no-one who can give a coherent order. Harry has never ordered a royal funeral, how should he know where to begin, how to judge the extent of the honour that should be given to his grandmother? How many mourners? How long the time of mourning? Where should she be buried? How should the whole ceremonial be done?

I summon my oldest friend in England, the Duke of Buckingham, who greeted me on my arrival all those years ago and is now Lord High Steward, and I ask for Lady Margaret Pole to come to me. My ladies bring me the great volume of ceremonial, The Royal Book, written by the king’s dead grandmother herself, and I set about organising my first public English event.

I am lucky; tucked inside the cover of the book I find three pages of handwritten instructions. The vain old lady had laid out the order of the procession that she wanted for her funeral. Lady Margaret and I gasp at the numbers of bishops she would like to serve, the pallbearers, the mutes, the mourners, the decorations on the streets, the duration of the mourning. I show them to the Duke of Buckingham, her one-time ward, who says nothing but in discreet silence just smiles and shakes his head. Hiding my unworthy sense of triumph I take a quill, dip it in black ink, cut almost everything by a half, and then start to give orders.

It was a quiet ceremony of smooth dignity, and everyone knew that it had been commanded and ordered by the Spanish bride. Those who had not known before realised now that the girl who had been waiting for seven years to come to the throne of England had not wasted her time. She knew the temperament of the English people, she knew how to put on a show for them. She knew the tenor of the court: what they regarded as stylish, what they saw as mean. And she knew, as a princess born, how to rule. In those days before her coronation, Catalina established herself as the undeniable queen, and those who had ignored her in her years of poverty now discovered in themselves tremendous affection and respect for the princess.

She accepted their admiration, just as she had accepted their neglect: with calm politeness. She knew that by ordering the funeral of the king’s grandmother she established herself as the first woman of the new court, and the arbiter of all decisions of court life. She had, in one brilliant performance, established herself as the foremost leader of England. And she was certain that after this triumph no-one would ever be able to supplant her.

We decide not to cancel our coronation, though My Lady the King’s Grandmother’s funeral preceded it. The arrangements are all in place, we judge that we should do nothing to mar the joy of the City or of the people who have come from all over England to see the boy Harry take his father’s crown. They say that some have travelled all the way from Plymouth, who saw me come ashore, a frightened seasick girl, all those years ago. We are not going to tell them that the great celebration of Harry’s coming to the throne, of my coronation, is cancelled because a cross old lady has died at an ill-judged time. We agree that the people are expecting a great celebration and we should not deny them.

In truth, it is Harry who cannot bear a disappointment. He had promised himself a great moment of glory and he would not miss it for the world. Certainly not for the death of a very old lady who spent the last years of her life preventing him from having his own way in anything.

I agree with him. I judge that the king’s grandmother seized her power and enjoyed her time, and now it is time for us. I judge that it is the mood of the country and the mood of the court to celebrate the triumph of Harry’s coming to the throne with me at his side. Indeed, for some of them, who have long taken an interest in me, there is the greatest delight that I shall have the crown at last. I decide – and there is no-one but me to decide – that we will go ahead. And so we do.

I know that Harry’s grief for his grandmother is only superficial; his mourning is mostly show. I saw him when I came from her privy chamber, and he knew, since I had left her bedside, that she must be dead. I saw his shoulders stretch out and lift, as if he were suddenly free from the burden of her care, as if her skinny, loving, age-spotted hand had been a dead weight on his neck. I saw his quick smile – his delight that he was alive and young and lusty, and that she was gone. Then I saw the careful composing of his face into conventional sadness and I stepped forwards, with my face grave also, and told him that she was dead, in a low sad voice, and he answered me in the same tone.

I am glad to know that he can play the hypocrite. The court room in the Alhambra Palace has many doors; my father told me that a king should be able to go out of one and come in through another and nobody know his mind. I know that to rule is to keep your own counsel. Harry is a boy now, but one day he will be a man and he will have to make up his own mind and judge well. I will remember that he can say one thing and think another.

But I have learned something else about him too. When I saw that he did not weep one real tear for his grandmother I knew that this king, our golden Harry, has a cold heart that no-one can trust. She had been as a mother to him; she had dominated his childhood. She had cared for him, watched over him, and taught him herself. She supervised his every waking moment and shielded him from every unpleasant sight, she kept him from tutors who would have taught him of the world, and allowed him to walk only in the gardens of her making. She spent hours on her knees in prayer for him and insisted that he be taught the rule and the power of the church. But when she stood in his way, when she denied him his pleasures, he saw her as his enemy; and he cannot forgive anyone who refuses him something he wants. I know from this that this boy, this charming boy, will grow to be a man whose selfishness will be a danger to himself, and to those around him. One day we may all wish that his grandmother had taught him better.