I managed to catch a television series not that long ago; The Tudors. One of the main characters of series one and two was a woman by the name of Katherine of Aragon who was played by the hardly known actress Maria Doyle Kennedy. At first I was outraged, believing they would destroy her character. They surprised me though, the series producers, the entire production team, the scriptwriters and Ms Maria. She played the part very well, something, which greatly impressed me. She did not, however, do Katherine’s memory justice, no one ever could. Now you may be wondering why I am mentioning this all and rightly so for it is a slight diversion from my meeting Isabella, Marco and Diablo for the first but not last time. It has relevance though for, you see, I knew Katherine of Aragon, not very well but I still knew her. Like everyone who knew her, she had a profound impact on me. Such was her being and personality, calm and gentle as the slight breeze that ruffles the leaves on the trees in summer. Yes, I can still remember. I can remember it all. The summer days that I used to have, sweet Katherine’s youthful face with shining eyes, glittering with childish laughter. I remember her happiness and her magnificent regality, her devotion to all she believed in. Then, my thoughts stray to the summer nights and the mature, strong-willed yet defeated mother and true Queen of England, despite the bewitching charms of the dark eyed witch that was Anne Boleyn. If my love for Katherine had not been so strong then my admiration for Anne would have won. Anne, I knew from her wanderings of the gardens at night close to her demise. After Katherine passed away it almost seemed as though Anne was ready in both body and spirit to die herself. To find this in a mortal being is mildly alarming, or was at the time. Now, it is a part of nature, as true as I am to the night, as true as Katherine was to Henry and her beloved daughter Mary.
There may very well be many accounts out in the world of Katherine of Aragon when I had heard of her and when I knew her but I beg you listen to mine, for it is as true as any you will hear. Evil as I may be, I am truthful and I am not corrupt in the same sense as the many others in the world at the time. Gold and silver lined their purses to give their accounts; justice to a great woman’s memory is all that persuades me to give mine. Which one would you chose to believe?
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I would never have met the most brilliant Katherine if it had not been for my parents, more so my mother. There were very few who knew of my desire, at the time, to go to Court, to be part of that mystical and wonderful debacle. I had been fed many beautiful tales of Court, of its splendour and with every tale my desire to witness it and my pain at being unable to increased. To me, Court had not just been Court. It had been so much more. I had seen it as the unity of the nobility under two shining stars, the full enjoyment of life, the rich purity. That was what the intellectual Court of our beloved sovereign, King Henry VIII and his Spanish wife, Queen Consort, Katherine of Aragon had been to me.
I was far enough from Court to be immune from it’s immediate influences and thus, in mother’s view, safe from corruption and all the bad in the world. Hearing of the glamorous hustle and bustle of Court was both a reward and a torture. My life, as it was at the time, was so peaceful and tranquil. I was as far away from that which my father frequently revelled in as could be possible and this killed me. I was desperate to be there, to experience it all and be a part of it. My desire for it was so strong; almost as strong as that I had felt for Isabella, almost as strong as the lust a man felt for a woman, carnal and animalistic. My ‘lust’ was for the symbolism of earthly pleasure that was Court, the heart of one of the greatest nations in the world.
Mother’s feelings about Court were the complete opposite of mine. She had been, once, to the glittering fashions of that beautiful and mysterious place. She had hated it, simple country girl that she was. As a generalisation, she hated towns of any form, more so London, and any place where the ‘frivolous social predators’ lurked. In time, I would come to agree with her. She had the same perspective as the one I was soon to share with Isabella, Marco and Diablo. I had no hope of understanding then, such was the strength of my belief in the falsities that existed, the illusions created first to deceive, then to destroy. If I had known this before I had met Katherine then I imagine certain things would not have come to pass, both good and bad. As it was, I was firmly set in my belief that my visit to London with Mother would be one of the most important moments in my life and it was, in a way. Just not the way I had thought of it.
Our clothes had been sent ahead of us and were waiting with Father, who had just returned from the war in France. Our purpose in riding to London was firstly to greet him then to bring him home before he was enlisted for anything else. Whilst he had been away, Mother had been a shadow of the woman I had known all my life, something I had found tremendously difficult to handle, hence my spending more and more time with Uncle Arthur. Initially, I had been surprised at my Mothers acceptance of this arrangement. Uncle Arthur, on the other hand, found it most troubling. My reaction to this was, to say the least, dismissive.
“Welcome to London Godfrey.” Mother commented in an unusually loud and high voice as she dismounted lightly from her horse. Shaking my head I followed her example and leapt from my horse to the ground. Two men from the stables we had came to a halt before hurried over and, taking hold of the horses reigns, led them away. Before they did, however, Mother held out a small purse I knew contained several pieces of silver for one of the men. He graciously accepted the purse and then went on his way with the horses. I watched the two men enviously. They had spent so much longer closer to what I had spent my entire life yearning for. They were of a lower position in life than me and yet they had what I would give me inheritance to have. They had London and what did I have? Norfolk. Mother shook her head and tutsed, gesturing with one gloved hand to follow her. Follow her I did, through sickening streets and cramped closes. As we walked, my thoughts fought violently with one and other, each more desperate to be heard than the last. This could not be London. This was the hovel, the wretched graveyard before London. The real London. A place with buildings even larger and grander than Uncle Arthur’s home, the castle we resided in. Courts and halls and gardens greater than our own. Power and fashion, beauty and terrifying grace. It was at this moment that Isabella, that strange angel, danced into my mind, as clear as the finery of my clothes and the birds soaring through the sky, grey like the bluntest and dirtiest of swords. Did she belong to those at Court? Was that her true place? Would I see her again? Yes, of course I would. I was seeing her now. As I followed Mother I could see her, smiling that half-smile of hers as she selected an apple of shining red from the cart just ahead of us. Watching me the way she had at Uncle Arthur’s, her position haughty and dissatisfied, outside the nunnery.
“Godfrey! Quickly now.” Mother reprimanded, jolting me out of my thoughts. Isabella was gone and the world was as bleak and colourless as it had been before she had appeared, such a lovely apparition. She looked even more beautiful than I had imagined the prettiest princess to be, bore herself with greater regality and femininity than any person I would profess to have met and her eyes. Oh, her eyes, so searching and deep with the promise of wonderful secrets and terrifying truths soon to be whispered tantalizingly and quietly in your ear. Her hair seemed to shine the way I imagined an angels halo too and if only she had let it down. I imagine it would be the perfect background to her slender, petite frame. When you first set your eyes on her it almost seemed as though she could shatter at any moment like the most precious of glasses. Then her eyes locked with yours and this horrifying image was immediately vanquished to the darkest of places in your mind where it lurked until night came and everything in your consciousness was open and free to tempt you, torment you, terrify you.
