Читать книгу Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1: The Constant Princess, The Other Boleyn Girl, The Boleyn Inheritance - Philippa Gregory - Страница 34

They carried Catalina from the Tower to Westminster as an English princess. She travelled in a litter made of cloth of gold, carried high by four white palfreys so everyone could see her. She wore a gown of white satin and a coronet set with pearls, her hair brushed out over her shoulders. Harry was crowned first and then Catalina bowed her head and took the holy oil of kingship on her head and breasts, stretched out her hand for the sceptre and the ivory wand, knew that, at last, she was a queen, as her mother had been: an anointed queen, a greater being than mere mortals, a step closer to the angels, appointed by God to rule His country, and under His especial protection. She knew that finally she had fulfilled the destiny that she had been born for, she had taken her place, as she had promised that she would.

She took a throne just a little lower than King Henry’s, and the crowd that cheered for the handsome young king coming to his throne also cheered for her, the Spanish princess, who had been constant against the odds and was crowned Queen Katherine of England at last.

I have waited for this day for so long that when it comes it is like a dream, like the dreams I have had of my greatest desires. I go through the coronation ceremony: my place in the procession, my seat on the throne, the cool lightness of the ivory rod in my hand, my other hand tightly gripping the heavy sceptre, the deep, heady scent of the holy oil on my forehead and breasts, as if it is another dream of longing for Arthur.

But this time it is real.

When we come out of the Abbey and I hear the crowd cheer for him, for me, I turn to look at my husband beside me. I am shocked then, a sudden shock like waking suddenly from a dream – that he is not Arthur. He is not my love. I had expected to be crowned beside Arthur and for us to take our thrones together. But instead of the handsome, thoughtful face of my husband, it is Harry’s round, flushed beam. Instead of my husband’s shy, coltish grace, it is Harry’s exuberant swagger at my side.

I realise at that moment, that Arthur really is dead, really gone from me. I am fulfilling my part of our promise, marrying the King of England, even though it is Harry. Please God, Arthur is fulfilling his part: to watch over me from al-Yanna, and to wait for me there. One day, when my work is done and I can go to my love, I will live with him forever.

‘Are you happy?’ the boy asks me, shouting to make himself heard above the pealing of the bells and the cheering of the crowds. ‘Are you happy, Catalina? Are you glad that I married you? Are you glad to be Queen of England, that I have given you this crown?’

‘I am very happy,’ I promise him. ‘And you must call me Katherine now.’

‘Katherine?’ he asks. ‘Not Catalina any more?’

‘I am Queen of England,’ I say, thinking of Arthur saying these very words. ‘I am Queen Katherine of England.’

‘Oh, I say!’ he exclaims, delighted at the idea of changing his name, as I have changed mine. ‘That’s good. We shall be King Henry, and Queen Katherine. They shall call me Henry too.’

This is the king but he is not Arthur, he is Harry who wants to be called Henry, like a man. I am the queen, and I shall not be Catalina. I shall be Katherine – English through and through, and not the girl who was once so very much in love with the Prince of Wales.