Catherine of Aragon by Alison Prince

huge-eyed, a little inclined towards tears – but surely not mad? She greeted King Henry with tremulous dignity, and as he gave her his arm to escort her in, I saw him look down at her with a curiously tender concern. Philip, on the other hand, greeted his wife with no more than conventional courtesy, and I saw her lips quiver as he walked away, though she managed to retain her composure.
    Henry announced this evening that Philip has agreed to hand over the fugitive Earl of Suffolk, who has been living in the Netherlands for many years. The two royal men are on fire with their friendship and the power of the promises they have made to assist each other against all enemies, and Uncle Rod has sent a desperate message to Ferdinand of Aragon, warning him of the forces allied against him.
    Tomorrow Catherine and her remaining retainers are to be sent back to Richmond, so she has had little chance to talk to her sister. And I have a new reason to regret leaving here. Tonight, I met a man who enchants me. He was sitting by the lily pool where great goldfish swim slowly under the round leaves. I had gone out to cool my flushed face, heated from dancing, and did not see him until he said, “It’s better out here. Sane.”
    He came with Philip’s entourage. He is their court jester, and they call him “Mr John” – perhaps that’s as close as they can get to his real name, Michel Valjean. Or perhaps he took it as a stage name. I find myself remembering every word of the conversation I had with him. Such a down-to-earth conversation, about the absurdities of royalty and the dangers and pleasures of trying to cheer them up. “Your King Henry is hardly a laugh a minute, is he?” he said. “Hard work getting him to crack a smile. But he gave me ten pounds for amusing him, so I must have done something right.”
    He took my hand when we turned to come in, and ran his thumb over my knuckles. “A nice hand,” he said. “Practical.”
    But tomorrow I have to go back to Richmond.
    1st April 1506
    All Fools’ Day. So I think of my Fool, of course. My Michel. Foolishly, I expect. He has moved on now, to other courts, other fishponds, warm and still in the heat of Spain.
    28th June 1506
    Prince Harry’s fifteenth birthday.
    For us, there is no cause for celebration. Again, we shift in our ragged clothes from one contemptible place to another. When we came back to Richmond, we were put in rooms above the stable, dusty and mouse-infested, and now we are in a filthy, run-down manor in Fulham.
    Nobody grumbles any more, we are past that. Everyone is aware of Catherine’s simmering rage, but the determination in her set face commands respect. There are no carping remarks now about her pawning off the remaining plate and jewels, though we all know the goldsmiths charge her high interest rates, fearing they will never see their money again. Occasionally Henry gives her a hundred pounds or so, but it is swallowed up at once in reclaiming some of the pawned treasure. She cannot be stripped of everything, she says, if she is to have some self-respect when she marries Harry. I can’t understand how she goes on believing this will happen.
    18th October 1506
    An extraordinary blow has fallen. We heard today that Philip of the Netherlands is dead. Philip the Handsome, as they all called him. Philip the Faithless, breaker of Juana’s heart. Philip the friend of Henry and newly arrived king of Castile.
    What will happen now? I suppose this means Ferdinand will resume his throne, ruling on behalf of Juana, whom he has always declared to be insane.
    I am kept busy mending Catherine’s gowns. I darn the tears and thin patches, then decorate them with flat-stitch embroidery, but nobody is taken in. We are destitute.
    19th October 1506
    I walked to the Strand late this afternoon, to see my uncle. He begins to look very old and worn. He says that now Philip is dead, Henry will have