Chapter Text
Catalina de Aragón y Castilla has known since she was a child that her destiny is to marry Prince Arthur, the heir to the English throne, and reign by his side as Queen until God parts them. Why, then, has his father King Henry waited so long to send for her?
The answer to that question shocks her almost to silence.
“The English believe the name on one’s wrist is that of one’s soulmate – one’s greatest Earthly love,” her confessor, Fray Diego, explains once they are on board. “El Rey does not wish you to marry the Prince until your mark appears lest it not read ‘Arthur’. Forgive me, but I have only just learned this today from Sir Edward Howard.”
“Earthly – romantic love?” she gasps, her mouth dropping open. “Do they not use the saint’s mark to discover marranos?”
“Which marranos would that be, Alteza? You are marrying into an entirely Christian kingdom untainted by either Jew or Moor. God in his wisdom knows what each realm needs most; the English require His help not to root out apostasy but to guide their cold hearts into holy matrimony, to assure the perpetuation of the species.”
A reasonable theory, Catalina has to admit. “The northerners do not always give their children saint’s names, do they? There is no St. Arthur to my knowledge.”
“No St. Arthur,” he sighs, “no St. Eleanor, and although Charlemagne was a true warrior for Christ he bore a pagan name as well. There are English saints, of course; Thomas Becket and Richard of Chichester come to mind – but I pray you do not bear the latter name on your wrist.”
That she cannot argue with.
They arrive at Plymouth on the feast of St. Leger (and St. Thomas of Hereford, Diego is quick to point out) and make their way eastward toward London slowly through the pouring rain and sticky mud, their enormous baggage train slowing them down at every turn. “Queen Elizabeth warned my mother that English water is unfit to drink,” she grouses to María de Salinas at the end of a particularly wet day. “She didn’t say how much of it there was.”
By the time they reach the unpronounceable county of Hampshire every member of her party is exhausted to the bone, but none so much as her mother’s ambassador, Don Pedro – which is why she is surprised to hear his voice and that of another carry through the walls of her sleeping tent late one night. “What are they saying?” she asks Doña Elvira.
Her duenna listens for a moment. “Don Pedro is telling – ¡Dios mío!”
She springs out of bed and reaches for her dressing gown. “What is it?”
Elvira’s dark Basque eyes have grown as wide as saucers. “It’s King Henry; he’s here and he’s asking to see you!”
“Here?” she cries. “I – he can’t – Mother would never—”
”His Grace is ordering Don Pedro to bring you out immediately,” she continues. “Fray Diego – he’s there as well – is telling the King of your lady mother the Queen’s orders to keep you covered until the wedding.” Her face suddenly turns brilliant red as one of the men starts to shout. “El Rey is furious! He accuses us of trying to palm off a deformed girl on his son! Alteza…”
“If that is his belief we will have to prove him wrong.” She gestures to her yawning slave to bring her the veil hanging from a hook by the bed; the girl only has time to pin it in place before the tent flap opens and Don Pedro peeks in. “I take it the King is without?” she asks.
“Er, yes,” he stammers, “but you do not have to see him; it is most irregular and your lady mother the Queen has given strict orders that—”
He is interrupted by a shout; with a sigh she allows Don Pedro to lead her out to where a tall grey-haired man, obviously King Henry, is expostulating with her confessor, Fray Diego. “Your Grace, I welcome you,” she says in Latin, interrupting them.
He turns to her in surprise as she drops into a curtsey. “So this is…”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Don Pedro replies, his voice as smooth as silk. “The Infanta Catalina.”
The King raises her from her curtsey but before she can speak again he reaches out and flips back her veil, his eyes widening at the sight of her uncovered hair. “You are – my lady, you must forgive me for the intrusion,” he says after a moment’s pause, “but in this realm unmarried ladies do not veil themselves. I must admit that you do appear more…more mature than I would have expected of a girl of fifteen. Has your soulmark truly not yet appeared?”
She holds up her bare left wrist, unsure if she should take offence at his comment. “My saint’s mark,” and she emphasizes the last words, “will appear in December, sire.”
He frowns at her. “Saint’s mark? Don Pedro…”
Slowly, and with numerous interruptions on the part of the inquisitive King, Don Pedro and Fray Diego explain the difference between the English and Spanish practices, emphasizing God’s wisdom in tailoring the visible sign of His will to the benefit of each realm. “The Catholic Monarchs have themselves been painted with their saint’s marks visible,” Diego adds, “as both are under the protection and care of the Holy Virgin.”
“Then they are truly blessed,” the King replies, crossing himself. “And you, Infanta? Do you expect to bear a saint’s name?”
“An English saint’s, yes, such as Thomas Becket, or – or…”
“Or St. Winifred,” Don Pedro suggests, shooting her a warning glare.
The King’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Ah, but that particular saint is not English but Welsh. What happens when – but I forget myself: you have yet to meet your groom. Arthur, come forward.”
A tall, handsome boy steps out from behind the tent flap, his amber eyes meeting hers as he rises from a bow – and her world changes forever.
Two weeks later they are married at Westminster Abbey; three weeks after that her saint’s mark proves her right. “Thomas,” she says at breakfast, holding out her wrist for Arthur’s inspection. “Spelled in the English manner.”
“We’ll have to make a pilgrimage to Canterbury next summer,” he answers. “Will I bear a saint’s mark, do you think?”
She reaches over to clasp his hand. “You are an Englishman, Turi; I have no doubt you will wake up with your soulmate’s name on your wrist.”
“Your name, then,” he says, smiling brightly, “for there is no one for me but you.”
But before his soulmark appears – indeed, before he is capable of making her his wife in more than name – he sickens and dies, leaving nothing behind but a tomb in Worcester Cathedral and a lifetime of broken dreams.