The Holy Tudors

June 1483

London

The Tower of London was a treasure trove of activity. Guards ran to and fro throughout the halls in every structure, weapons in hand, and with maids and servants toiling through the corridors carrying everything from bed linens to food trays, there was little room for errors in coordination. Ewers of hot water were brought for the nobility staying within the Tower’s more luxurious chambers, and the tools of torture used to establish treason and truth made their way to the stink of the rooms down below the main floors.

Despite the hustle and bustle inside the great, grey stone castle, the Tower gave the illusion of peace and tranquility as it loomed above the north bank of the River Thames. It was late in the evening, and the river had absorbed much of the early summer sun’s heat. As the cooling air floated over the water, the dense fog forming above its surface made the castle look eerie and mysterious, almost disappearing under the great fog. From the outside no passersby could ever tell of the goings-on within the towering walls of the fortress. No one knew of the mysteries the Tower held, the scandals, nor the happenings that could possibly affect the world outside its rag-stone walls.

No one could see the two young boys lingering in one of the square corners of the Tower. The lads were quiet, trying not to giggle, for they had escaped without detection from their residence chamber in the east. They were tired of being kept inside. While their guard had distracted himself with bread and a cup of small ale, assuming the boys were asleep in their beds, they had snuck out with the soles of their bare feet enjoying the feeling of the cool stone floor.

All they wanted was to breathe in the cool night air and break free from the stuffy, musty surroundings they had been trapped in for weeks now. The four walls had grown monotonous for them: always the same tapestries, always the same walls, always the same food - though they noticed it had become increasingly poorer in quality. The windows were sealed; they were no longer allowed to look outside. So while the guard wolfed down his meagre meal and sipped at his ale, they had stolen outside the chamber. Then reveling in their temporary emancipation, they had made their way through the Great Hall. Though they knew they could easily arrive at one of the square corners through an entrance near their chamber, they had both agreed that the view from the opposite corner was more breathtaking and therefore worth the greater effort.

Energized by the very cool night air which they had sought, they ended up talking into the wee hours about their lives as princes of York before coming to the Tower for their protection - according to their uncle, the newly crowned King Richard III. They lamented about how much they missed their mother, the Dowager Queen Elizabeth of York, as well as their sisters. After the death of their father King Edward IV, the boys’ family had sought sanctuary from the scandals surrounding the coronation of Richard III and the fear of more members of the York family being taken to the Tower.

After several hours, the boys noticed the sun emerging in the east. The light filtered through the morning fog that hovered over the River Thames. As the boys stood up to marvel in the view of the brilliant morning, they saw passersby walking below near Tower Wharf.

Suddenly, their reverie was interrupted by a deep bellowing voice from inside the Great Hall. This was the angry voice of the guard they had slipped past the night before, and they knew they had been discovered.

So as the heavy footsteps penetrated through the west wing, the boys poked their heads out from the unsealed window of the corner overlooking the River Thames. The passersby took immediate notice of the two young faces that had suddenly emerged at the window. Before the boys could wave or even smile, they were yanked by their throats from the window opening and dragged to their chamber in the east wing - back to the monotony. Back to the same four walls, the same tapestries, the same fear of the unknown, and the same prison they had been forced to call home.

After that day, those two young boys were never seen again. But on that early morning, although the boys could not hear, everyone who saw them let these same words escape their lips…

They are the Princes…

August 1483

The narrow, crooked streets of London were filthy. The stench of urine, feces, and rotten food permeated through the city like a rolling cloud in a gathering storm. The people trudged their way through the dirty cobblestone walks, tripping over human garbage, fanning away the smell. The heat of the late summer sun only ripened the stench as it baked everything that lay upon the streets. Beggars squatted at every corner, hoping for a handout from the many middle-class dwellers who were braving the outside air.

The citizens of London and its surrounding areas had been suffering most of the summer from the blistering heat. With temperatures hovering well above average, many had tried to escape the sun’s rays by basking in the shade and were vigourously fanning themselves. Some had even peeled off their outer clothing and were wading in the Thames, notwithstanding the filth floating in the dingy water which flowed through London.

Amongst the beggars that lined the streets was a young orphaned boy. Crouched alongside one of many stone buildings, his arms hugged his knees as if he were shivering from a wind that did not exist. He was fair with a light blond fringe covering his pale blue eyes and a small patch of freckles on his gaunt cheeks. His clothes were ragged and dirty; his shoes were scuffed and nearly devoid of any soles; and his floppy, dusty hat bore a multitude of holes and was torn in many places. His stomach growled with intensity, angry at being forgotten for many days. The boy’s mouth was dry and thick from the heat. He and his friend had been begging for food and water for days with no success, and they were beginning to suffer from the lack of both. His friend had gone into one of the bake houses across the street to beg for a pie or two. Just the thought of some savoury venison, chicken, or fish enveloped in thick, English pastry was enough to make the boy’s mouth water in anticipation, near to the point where he was no longer thirsty.

The sound of slight, quick footsteps from passersby was replaced by the heavy thuds of a man’s trudge, punctuated by the resounding clang of a sword. The footsteps grew louder until they came to a stop in front of the starving boy. He looked up slowly and gazed into the man’s piercing, dark eyes.

The man looked down at the very poorly dressed boy. He squatted down, coming eye level to the boy’s depressed, thin face. Reaching into his doublet, the man brought out a handkerchief, and after pouring some water onto it from his canteen, he kindly wiped some of the mud off of the boy’s face.

You must be hungry, the man said with sympathy.

Yes, sir, the boy replied with fear, yet at the same time trying to look brave. My friend, too, he added, pointing in the direction of the bake house where his counterpart had gone. He went in there to fetch us a pie or two.

The man turned to where the bake house was located just in time to see another young boy dressed in similar ragged, filthy clothes thrown out the door by the angry merchant. The owner had tossed the boy out with such force that he landed on his side, turning over several times before crashing into a cart filled with manure infested hay.

Get out, y’filthy beggar! the owner shouted.

The second boy scrambled to his feet, and favouring his left hip he limped towards his friend and the man who had witnessed the entire spectacle. The man rose slowly to address the merchant. Peace, my friend, he called out, holding up his hand, he means you no harm.

He’s doin’ my business harm, comin’ in an’ makin’ it stink! the man screamed, making many of the surrounding people turn their heads in wonder. I got a woman ready t’vomit! He addressed the boy once again, pointing his finger and straining his neck so that the veins along his throat bulged. Don’t you be comin’ in here agin’! He slammed the door behind him with such force that the sign advertising his shop fell from its hinges and broke onto the ground in splinters.

I tried, Cal, the boy whimpered, wiping tears from his eyes. Landed right on m’hip. He threw me and I swear I was flyin’.

’Tis all right, Cal responded. He nodded beside him to indicate to his friend that he should sit and rest. We will get some food. He tried to act as confident as possible for his friend, though he had no idea how he’d ever come across anything for the two of them to eat.

If you come with me, the man offered, I will get you food. He looked at the boys’ ragged clothes and sighed. I will get you into better clothes too. Yours look like they haven’t been washed for weeks.

Months, my Lord, Cal informed him. The second boy grinned, despite the grimace of pain that followed. Cal brushed away the fair strands of hair that had fallen in front of his face, exposing faint freckles on his gaunt cheeks.

The man smiled understandingly. What are your names?

I am Cal, the first boy said, and this is Will. He nodded to his friend, who was still rubbing his sore hip.

The man smiled at both boys. And what has happened to cause you to be here alone on the streets? Where are your parents? Your family? he asked.

The two boys exchanged glances with each other knowingly. Cal looked down at his scuffed soles and then back up at the man with a confused expression. Oh, we are orphans, my Lord, for as long as we can remember. We have no parents. No family. Just us. Cal looked back at his friend Will and they smiled at each other.

And your ages?

I am thirteen, sir, Cal replied, and so is my friend Will.

Thirteen? the man said, looking incredulously at the slight fair haired Will. You are very small for your age, he commented.

I am, sir, Will agreed. It is the reason why I am tossed quite easily out of bake houses!

The man laughed heartily and helped little Will to his feet. The boy found he could not walk without limping, so instead, his benefactor lifted him up and carried him easily with one arm. Thank you, sir, Will declared happily. The man took Cal’s hand and led him through the dirty street.

If you please sir, Cal began, looking up at their benefactor, could you tell us your name? He looked up at his little friend Will, who was grinning from ear to ear. For the first time in his life he was proud of his small stature as it allowed him to be carried so easily.

The man smiled again as they walked past the bake house and down the street, their heads basking in the heat of the late summer sun.

You can call me James.

After Sir James Tyrell had taken the boys to a tavern for dinner, he brought them to a tailor where they were fitted with elegant breeches, fine silk blouses, and rich velvet coats. The boys wore their new clothes proudly, despite the heat that greeted them as they left the tailor’s establishment. Their hose clung to their thin legs as they walked along either side of Sir Tyrell.

Where do we go now, my Lord? Cal asked curiously, wiping away the sweat that had beaded on his forehead with the back of his hand.

Tyrell stopped walking and kneeled down to meet the boys at eye level. I must return to my post at the Tower. I am a trusted servant of the King, and I am on a mission bidden by God.

Fascinated, Cal and Will exchanged a glance. What kind of mission? Will inquired, with an excited smile.

Can we come, too? Cal jumped up and down, his eyes bright.

Tyrell laughed at the boys’ exuberance, and realized that the mission at hand would be much easier than he had expected. Despite his inward pleasure at finding what he needed, he feigned a look of warning. The Tower is not a place for children, he mentioned, with darkness in his voice.

But we heard that the Princes are there, Cal replied, turning to Will with a slight giggle and nudging him with a bony elbow. Perhaps they could use playfellows. It must be so lonely for them there, just waiting for God knows what.

Tyrell could only smile slightly, for no one had seen the Princes for weeks. No one knew where they were, nor what had happened to them. The public were never to know of their fate. They were waiting, all right, Tyrell thought to himself, though God would strike me dead if I ever disclosed it to anyone, even to these innocents.

Please, sir, Cal repeated, excited at the prospect of seeing what was inside the Tower. Despite his excitement, a little fear began to build inside of him for there had been word that the assumed Edward V was a prisoner inside the Tower along with his younger brother Richard, the Duke of York. Their uncle, Richard III, was King of England now. Proclaiming himself ruler of the realm after illegitimizing his two nephews, Richard had trapped his nephews in the Tower for a reason he had yet to disclose to anyone. So far his motivation was rumoured to be out of protection for the Princes, as pretenders were beginning to emerge claiming that they were the rightful heirs to the English throne. Richard had been King for weeks, but there still seemed to be no sign of the two young boys. Swallowing his fearful thoughts of the tyrant Richard III, Cal convinced himself that the possibility of seeing the two young boys who had been sent to the Tower for Edward V’s supposed coronation was too tempting to ignore. He jumped up and down on his thin legs, making the material on his new clothing slap against his pale skin.

Sir? Cal inquired one final time, his eyes wide and bright.

James Tyrell laughed and nodded. Perhaps you are right, he agreed. But you must come with me quietly. We should keep this as a surprise, should we not? Both boys nodded emphatically, excited to meet the young Princes. Once we arrive, it will be late; the Princes will have already retired. I will assign you a chamber, as it is best you get some sleep. Tyrell paused at the question of how to sneak the boys in without being detected, for the King knew nothing of what lay ahead. Cal and Will nodded their agreement.

Then let’s go, Tyrell instructed them, as he stood up and lifted little Will with one arm. Both boys wore smiles of pride and excitement on their faces. For the first time in his life, Cal walked confidently beside his newfound friend, the anticipation overwhelming him. He breathed in deeply as though he was breathing the freshest air from the mountain regions and not the stuffy, muggy air of the streets of London.

Sir James Tyrell walked proudly as well, for he knew he was one step closer to fulfilling his duty.

I will do as I have been commanded. God commands me.

Tyrell knocked quietly on the chamber door, waiting several seconds before entering. When he entered, he found Lady Margaret Beaufort kneeling in prayer. He bowed slightly before her.

My Lady, he spoke quietly.

Did you bring what was required? she asked without any other greeting, not even raising her head from prayer.

Yes, my Lady.

Where are they?

They are where they should be. I requested that they get some sleep.

And the Princes?

Sir Tyrell took a deep breath. They wait below. They are safe; hidden.

Where is the King?

He is on his way, Tyrell replied with hesitation. He wants me to…to…

To what? Lady Margaret inquired, getting to her feet and brushing the dust off her black velvet gown. She straightened her headdress after placing her rosary back in her pocket.

Dispatch them, Tyrell responded faintly. He swallowed hard to keep from voiding his dinner.

The King won’t do it himself, Lady Margaret observed aloud to herself, almost chuckling. Thank God, she thought, for it might ruin everything.

No, my Lady, Sir Tyrell confirmed. He refuses to have their blood on his hands.

Lady Margaret almost chuckled again. It seems this entire war is about how much blood we can spill over our own hands. Indeed, the war between Lancaster and York had been ongoing for ages, it seemed, and Lady Margaret prayed that it would all come to an end soon. There were so many who had suffered, and surely with more to come. The suffering would not be over until she could align Lancaster with York, and even then, it would only be the beginning.

Sir Tyrell cleared his throat. My Lady…

The King is a coward, she interrupted. Tyrell’s eyes widened at the insult. She sighed. You will do as he commands. Dispatch them quickly and quietly and dispose of the bodies any way you can without the King knowing how nor where.

They are innocent boys, Tyrell started, thinking of the two young souls he had saved and snuck into the Tower. Remembering how he had to suppress their giggles, he smiled.

They are all innocent, Lady Margaret replied dryly. They will not be forsaken, she added, closing her eyes.

What if the Princes refuse?

Lady Margaret sighed again, heavily. She walked over to the window, though there was no breeze to relieve her of the heat still lingering in the air. She placed her hands on the windowsill as if to steady herself. I shall pray to God for guidance, in the event that the Princes fail to accept their duty.

A sudden thought came to Sir Tyrell. There had to be an alternative, or another plan should the first one fail to come to fruition. Surely there had to be another option. What of your son?

Lady Margaret turned to face him. It is my son’s duty to embrace the throne of England, she informed him. Not the vessel of God. She took several steps towards the King’s most loyal servant. Should the Princes fail in their duty, the burden shall be removed from the Plantagenets and placed down the Tudor line, she declared firmly. Their inheritance is imminent. Lady Margaret took a deep breath at the closure of her decision: a decision not met lightly, but a decision made under the command of God. All her life, Lady Margaret had been utterly devout and receptive to her duty. No matter the cost, her son Henry would find his way to the throne of England, and if necessary, his firstborn son would succeed him in ways no one would ever think possible.

When you have dispatched your... she paused, friends…and are clear to take leave of the King, you will take the Princes to Wales, she instructed. I will meet you there.

Yes, my Lady, Tyrell obeyed. He bowed once more, and took his leave.

Lady Margaret walked slowly back to the window, where she bowed her head and prayed for the boys who would be removed in secret to a discreet location, just as she prayed for those brought to replace them.

Sir Tyrell met with Richard III, King of England, accompanied by several guards on the way to the chamber where his two friends, Cal and Will, were sleeping. Tyrell’s heart was pounding fiercely at the thought of the task he must perform in order to abide by both the King’s and Lady Margaret’s commands.

James, the King addressed him, inclining his head forward in acknowledgement.

Tyrell bowed immediately. Your Grace, he replied.

Checking our Princes, are we?

Yes.

You know what must be done, the King murmured, concerned only with the completion of the task required and uninterested in the task itself.

Tyrell nodded. And what shall I do with the bodies, Your Grace? he whispered in the King’s ear.

The King thought for a moment, and then shrugged. Just get rid of them, he instructed. Put them under the stairwell, for all I care, he suggested, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. I am King now, which is all that matters. This is my kingdom, and I will have no pretenders to the throne when I have been the rightful heir all along. My brother bore those bastards with that whore of a wife, who no doubt seduced him with her witchcraft and her devious, beautiful face. They have no right to the throne. Get rid of them.

You are resigned to this course of action, Your Grace? Tyrell inquired, looking again for confirmation of his orders, orders he had not anticipated. He had assumed that the King would carry out his desire himself, with the two boys interfering in Richard’s future on the throne of England. Yet why would Richard want the blood of his own nephews on his hands? Already he was under suspicion for keeping the boys prisoner; why bring on more? Why commit a sin when he could have a servant do it for him?

Do it, the King demanded harshly. He spun on his heel and left in the opposite direction, his guards following closely behind.

Bowing once more to the King’s retreating back, Tyrell turned and faced the door of the chamber before him, taking several deep breaths. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and the palms of his hands were moist. It was very hot within the corridor with Tyrell’s clothing sticking to every inch of his skin. Never before had he been assigned such a task. Grown men were easy to deal with, but children were not.

Thank God the real Princes are safe, Tyrell thought to himself. He took one more deep breath and exhaled heavily through his mouth. Careful not to make a sound, he slowly opened the door into the chamber.

A dying fire cast a dim glow over the room, providing just enough light for Tyrell to see his way into it. He could just barely make out the silhouettes of the two boys who lay fast asleep in their small beds. Even though it was late and the windows were open, there was little relief from the heat of the passing day. The fire only made the room stuffier.

Before he could step any further into the room, Tyrell felt the overwhelming need to kneel down and utter a short prayer: Lord God above, he whispered, forgive me for what I must do. Please take the souls of these poor boys and help them ascend into heaven. I beg your forgiveness, as I will beg for theirs. He stood up and tiptoed as quietly as he could to the boy sleeping on his right.

It was little Will. Little Will with his fair hair and tiny freckles. Poor Will, always being thrown out of bake houses and vegetable markets, he had told Tyrell, but still ever willing to take the chance for a crust of bread or an apple. Will was fast asleep, and Tyrell could hear his slow, even breathing.

There was no time to spare. Forgive me, Tyrell whispered again, and grasping one of the pillows, he smothered little Will’s face. At first there was no response, until Will woke up to the realization that he could not breathe. He struggled to free himself from the material that Tyrell had pressed tightly against his face, but he was a weak boy, and no match for a grown man’s strength. The more Will struggled, the more Tyrell pushed, until soon the boy struggled no more, and when Tyrell lifted the pillow, all that was left was a limp, fair haired form with skin that would soon turn cold, despite the heat in the room.

Tyrell had to catch his breath. The act of murder made his heart pound almost to the point where he could not follow through with Cal. But he knew he had orders to obey; he knew he had a duty to fulfill. Regaining his composure, he got up from the bed and turned just in time to see Cal, up from his bed, scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

James? he inquired. He squinted at the man standing by Will’s bed. In the firelight he recognized his friend from the London streets. Afraid, he ran into Tyrell’s arms and buried his face in his silk blouse.

It is all right, Tyrell reassured Cal, holding the boy tightly. He looked up to the ceiling. I pray it will be all right.

Tyrell swiftly let go of Cal and turned him abruptly so that he stood behind the boy. He put one hand over Cal’s shocked face, covering his mouth and pinching his nose so that his young friend could not breathe, and wrapped his other arm around Cal’s waist so that he could not escape. Cal grasped Tyrell’s hand, trying to pull it away from his face, but his effort proved useless, as he could soon feel his lungs almost burning from the lack of air. Though he tried to kick and flail away from Tyrell, Cal became weaker, until at last he could fight no longer, and in his benefactor’s arms, he expired; the gift of life taken away in a grown man’s grasp.

Letting go of Cal’s lifeless body, it fell to the floor with a resounding clomp. Tyrell looked to the ceiling once more, a tear running down his rugged cheek.

God forgive me.

April 2, 1502

Ludlow Castle

Wales was a notoriously wet, windy, and cloudy country. The winter weather had pummeled the countryside with heavy snow, and it seemed to take forever to melt from the battlements of Ludlow Castle and run off into the awaiting River Teme. The citizens of the town of Ludlow constantly shivered and perpetually braced themselves for yet another storm to arrive and bring further misery.

Catalina of Aragon, sixteen years old and Princess of Wales, was still unaccustomed to the cold, wet weather of this country. She had been raised in the beautiful palace of the Alhambra, bordering on the southeastern portion of Granada, Spain, where the skies were cloudless, the shining of the sun dependable, and the rain arriving only when the immense gardens and surrounding flora appeared to stretch their branches and leaves towards the sky to summon the gentle sheets of water that would fall from the Spanish skies. They would extend their roots to drink up the precious rain, and in return, the fruits were sweeter, the leaves greener, and the scents from the flowers more intoxicating to those who dipped down to inhale them.

None of this happened in Wales. Only cold, wet, misery surrounded her in the lonely castle of Ludlow. If it weren’t for her husband Arthur, Prince of Wales, she would not be willing to suffer through these cold and damp weather conditions which were famous for having claimed the lives of so many men and women. Yet she was so in love with her young husband that his promise of the sun’s return in spring maintained her resolve to endure through the long winter.

Despite her commitment, Catalina still missed the sun and the warmth of southern Spain. She missed her family: her mother most of all, as well as her father and her sisters who were all married and sent off to foreign lands in order to create alliances all over Europe. The House of Trastamara was alive and well in the Low Countries and Portugal, not to mention her native Spain, and now that Catalina had been sent to England, the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella had established an alliance of sorts with King Henry VII.

The happiness with her handsome young husband Arthur was short-lived, for the winter had brought an illness of a devastating nature that had swept through the country just as the Great Plague had swept through England over one hundred and fifty years prior. Both Catalina and Arthur had been affected by this illness which the Welsh and English both called the sweating sickness, or the Sweat.

Catalina was convinced that her inability to adjust to the unfamiliar weather was the mitigating factor for why she had become so ill. Catalina had laid in her bed for days, suffering from headaches, cold shivers, giddiness, and great exhaustion followed by a hot, sweating stage and intense thirst. She had always been a strong, healthy girl, so the illness did not strike her as severely as it did others. She had been lucky, and was very relieved when she awoke to find that her fever had cooled and that her tongue no longer felt thick in her mouth. As soon as she had a clear moment after sorting through all that had happened to her the last few days, a single thought had struck her like she had been whipped: Arthur.

Arthur was ill as well, but he was not as lucky as Catalina. His symptoms had come on with such ferocity that he was delirious with fever. He mumbled in his sleep; he clutched his soaked bed sheets in a near-death grip; he moaned in such pain that his grooms of the bedchamber could not bear to listen. He felt as if the blood flowing through his veins was boiling inside of him, trying to force its way out of his body in the intense sweat that covered every inch of his fifteen-year-old form. The doctor had been in and out of the castle, trying to come up with different prescriptions to help the young Prince who was the son of Henry VII and the heir to the throne of England. He was, after all, the Rose of England, and the first Prince of the Tudor dynasty.

At the thought of Arthur, Catalina tried to get up and leave her bed, but the instant throbbing in her head felt like an ever tightening vice. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to push the pain away. Dizziness overwhelmed her, and she found she had to lie back down on the bed to catch her breath. The comfort of the soft pillows formed a reassuring contour around her auburn head, and immediately the pain subsided. Catalina closed her eyes.

A sudden knock at the door of her chamber made her eyes snap open. She inclined her head just enough to see her most trusted lady in waiting, Lady Margaret Pole, enter the room quietly, her face grim.

Immediately Catalina grew apprehensive. The dark look on Lady Margaret’s face told her only one thing: Arthur was worse.

Lady Margaret, Catalina began in slow French, my husband, how is he?

Lady Margaret Pole curtseyed to the Princess of Wales, but it was an effort. She bore the burden of giving Catalina news she had never thought she would have to give.

Princess, he is no better, Lady Margaret replied, also in French. She brought her hand to her mouth and swallowed, trying to regain her composure.

Catalina heard a stifled cry come up from her throat and escape from her mouth. She could feel her heart pounding as though it would pound out of her chest. Ignoring the pain in her head and the imminent dizziness, she summoned her long-lost strength and rose from her bed to grab the thick dark cloak that was hanging from one of the posters. Lady Margaret rushed to her side.

Princess, I cannot allow you to go to him! she exclaimed, trying to stop Catalina from leaving the safety of her chamber. But the Princess resisted Lady Margaret’s grasp and tried to pull away from her, her efforts sapping nearly all of her strength.

I must…see him, Catalina cried brokenly, gasping for air. All she could think of was Arthur. She had to get to Arthur. She had already been sick, and now she was better, so to think she could catch it again was preposterous.

Princess…

Let me go! Catalina escaped from the grip on her cloak and ran almost blindly out of the room. With Lady Margaret following close behind, Catalina scrambled through the halls of Ludlow Castle, nearly tripping over her cloak several times along the way. Lady Margaret finally caught up to her enough to lift up the back of her cloak so that the Princess would not fall and break her bones.

Catalina finally reached the corridor where Arthur’s chamber was located. There was a large gathering of men and women, many of whom were citizens of the town of Ludlow including servants, lords, ladies, the doctor assigned to Arthur, the apothecaries, Arthur’s confessor, his chaplain, and Lady Margaret’s husband, Sir Richard Pole.

All wore expressions of mourning. They watched Catalina as she approached the door to his chamber, bowing and parting the way for her as she drew closer. The doctor stepped forward to address the Princess with his devastating news.

I am sorry, Princess, he told her in French that was heavily laced with his English accent, but we are losing the Prince. His head bowed low at the acknowledgment of his failure to save the son and heir to Henry VII. The doctor knew that in the event of the loss of the Prince of Wales, he would have the King to answer to, and he knew not what would stem from it. Fear flashed briefly in his eyes, a sight that was fortunately missed by everyone in the chamber.

At once the Princess rushed to enter Arthur’s privy chamber, but Lady Margaret caught hold of her cloak to restrain her and the doctor spoke firmly. You cannot go in, Princess, he insisted. I cannot have you become ill again when you are so close to recovery!

You must let me in, please! Catalina begged. She looked to Lady Margaret for help. Please, Lady Margaret, please. I must see him! If he is dying, I must hear his voice once more. I love him, please! she cried vehemently, tears flowing freely from her flushed cheeks.

Princess… the doctor interjected, trying to dissuade her, but he saw he could not deny her wishes to see her husband one last time. He nodded to Lady Margaret. I will go in with her, he added.

No, Catalina asserted. I will go in alone. Defeated, Lady Margaret let go of Catalina’s cloak and stepped back to let the Princess see her husband. She bowed her head in prayer as Catalina disappeared into the next room.

She found the chamber to be unbearably hot with the fire burning brightly in the stone fireplace. It was so stuffy she could hardly breathe, and she had to swallow several times to stem her nausea. She stepped forward to find her young husband of barely five months: Arthur Tudor, the Prince of Wales.

Arthur was lying atop his twisted sheets, soaked with the sweat that seemed to pour from his skin as if he had been rained upon. His medium brown hair, accented with the unique Tudor-red sheen, was wet and matted, and the skin on his face was tainted a pale, almost grey pallor. His eyes were sunken and his lips were cracked, resembling the appearance of dead worms. There was a strange rattling in his chest, and when he coughed, Catalina could hear a bubbling sound as though his lungs were filling with water. She had to turn her face away at the sight of her husband suffering so. Only days ago he had been fine.

Arthur, she croaked, stepping closer to the foot of his bed. He stirred, and his eyes opened slightly. Seeing his beloved wife he managed to exude a slight smile, though it hurt to move his lips.

Beloved, he whispered in Latin. He tried to swallow but it ended up in another bubbling cough that shook his body violently. Catalina covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, and tears immediately came to her eyes at the sight of him dying before her.

My… Catalina could not finish. Her feet felt as if they were nailed to the floor; she could not move. She could not find the strength to move closer, to touch him one last time. How could she live without him? How could she go on without the sensation of his touch? A life without Arthur would be difficult, if not impossible, for how would she find the strength to go on alone? Who would take care of her? How could she produce the next heir without her husband? A million questions flashed through her mind until she heard Arthur’s weak voice.

Live on my love, for I die with your name on my lips. Arthur’s breath was punctuated by another rattle in his chest. He closed his eyes, and at that moment, Catalina finally mustered the ability to move. She ran from the room to find the doctor, nearly tripping once more on the way out.

You must help him! she cried. He cannot breathe! He is dying! She tugged at the doctor’s coat, but soon lost her grip and fell to the floor, sobbing. The doctor nodded to Arthur’s confessor, who left the Princess there, clinging to the doctor’s legs. Catalina looked up to find that the confessor had gone into the chamber. At once she let go of the doctor’s breeches and followed him in, Lady Margaret coming in close behind.

The confessor bowed before the young Prince and gazed at him with an expression that Catalina observed but could not explain. It was almost a look of expectation, a look that frightened her. The confessor, seeing that he was being scrutinized by the Princess, took the flask of anointing oil out of his cloak and administered extreme unction to the young Prince. Catalina sobbed uncontrollably throughout the entire sacrament, and Lady Margaret struggled to hold her up so that she would not fall to the floor again. Catalina refused to move from the room. She wanted to be there for Arthur’s last moments, to ensure she was the last face he saw before beginning his journey to God.

You must go back and rest, Princess, Lady Margaret Pole advised, interrupting Catalina’s thoughts and trying to drag her out of the room. Catalina had no strength to argue. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and so she allowed Lady Margaret to pull her out of the chamber and into the hall. The Princess repeatedly scuffed the soles of her shoes over the cold stone floors of Ludlow Castle, occasionally tripping over her cloak as she continued to weep with grief over the impending death of Arthur. Meanwhile, she could not get the look in the confessor’s eyes out of her mind.

All of a sudden Lady Margaret pulled Catalina to an abrupt stop. What is it? she asked with irritation, looking at her lady in waiting.

Lady Pole indicated ahead of her. It is My Lady, the King’s Mother, she whispered urgently.

What? Catalina replied as she turned her head forward.

Down the hall walking slowly towards them was Margaret Beaufort, mother of Henry VII and grandmother of Arthur. Her long, pale face held a solemn look as she moved almost without a sound, closer and closer to Catalina and Lady Margaret Pole.

Catalina was frozen. She and Margaret Beaufort were never on the greatest of terms. Catalina thought of the King’s mother as a cold, hard woman with one goal in mind: to accrue her son’s throne and make the Tudor dynasty the most powerful in Europe. The Princess was positive that Arthur’s grandmother needed the Spanish princess for the sole purpose of securing the alliance with her parents, the great Catholic Monarchs: Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile.

Margaret Beaufort continued to make her way towards the Princess and Lady Margaret Pole. When she was only a few paces away, Lady Margaret instructed with a whisper: Curtsey, which Catalina did immediately. But the King’s mother strode past without so much as an acknowledgement of their presence. Catalina turned to watch as her grandmother-in-law shuffled the rest of the way down the corridor.

What is she doing here? Catalina demanded, her throat hoarse from crying.

Most likely she is here to see the Prince before he succumbs.

The response struck Catalina in an odd way, and she made a face at Lady Margaret. But how would she know? Catalina calculated the logistics in her head. Arthur had been sick for only a few days. It would have taken longer than a few days to send a message to London, especially with the weather as it was, and even longer still for Arthur’s grandmother to make the trip to Ludlow. How did Margaret Beaufort know that her grandson was dying? How did she get here so quickly?

I do not know, Princess, Lady Margaret offered, pulling once more at Catalina’s cloak. Come, you must rest. You need your strength.

Soon Catalina forgot all about the confessor and his look of expectation, for over and over only one question burned through Catalina’s mind like wildfire - a question that would haunt her for the rest of her life. A question that would never be answered:

How did Margaret Beaufort know that her grandson was dying?

The door to the chamber opened with a long, slow creak. Arthur, Prince of Wales, squinted to focus on the figure that appeared in the doorway like a silhouette in the dim firelight. After several seconds, he could still not make out who had entered his chamber until she was right beside his huge four poster bed, looking down at him. Arthur squinted once more, his eyes nearly crusting shut with the effort.

He could see that it was a woman. My Lady…? he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. Was it his grandmother? What was she doing here? Arthur could barely see, much less think of how or why she was standing in front of him.

Arthur, Margaret Beaufort soothed her grandson in a voice he had never heard before. Normally she spoke in a commanding, critical, demanding tone. The smoothness and calmness of her voice caught Arthur off guard, and for a moment he thought his hearing had failed him along with the rest of his ailing body. His eyes followed her as she went over to the table that carried a jug of water. He could hear the sound of water pouring into a cup, but he did not know what she was pouring the water into, nor could he see once she had turned back to him and made her way to the side of the bed.

Margaret Beaufort was there for a purpose. She was there to claim Arthur, for his destiny lay not within the walls of Ludlow Castle, but within the kingdom of God. She was there to ensure it happened as she had been commanded. The world as you know it is about to change, my dear grandson, she informed him. To Arthur’s surprise, he felt her hand stroke the wet, matted hair on the top of his head, and as it moved down to the back of his neck, he could feel himself relax a little. Arthur closed his eyes - an easy course of action since he was so close to death.

Suddenly, he felt her cold, slender hand grasp the small of his neck in a gentle, but firm grip. Arthur’s eyes snapped open as wide as he possibly could and at that moment he saw his grandmother bring out a vessel that was nearly drenched in the shadow between her body and the firelight; the room was so dark he could barely make out its silhouette. He saw the cup-like container come closer to his dry lips as his grandmother chanted softly to him:

Drink, Arthur, drink…

At first he refused. Arthur tried to pull his face away from the unknown object holding what he hoped was only water. He was afraid, not only of death itself, but of the means. The first thing that came to his mind was that his grandmother was trying to kill him; she was attempting to hasten his death with a minute amount of poison just enough to take him to the other side.

My Lady, he choked, still trying to prevent the liquid from touching his lips. The King’s mother tightened her grip on Arthur’s neck and brought his head forward even more, tipping the vessel towards his mouth, spilling some of the contents in the process. Please… he begged, don’t…

Arthur, she commanded, you must drink! If you don’t drink, all will be lost…your mission, your destiny!

Immediately Arthur stopped. He looked up in confusion, giving Margaret Beaufort the perfect opportunity to pour some of the liquid into his mouth. He choked, coughed, and tried to spit out the water, but she clamped his jaw shut, leaving him no choice but to swallow. Letting go of Arthur’s neck, his head fell onto the pillow, his lungs gasping for air. He looked up again at her, a million questions in his eyes, though they were barely open.

My Lady, he croaked weakly, exhausted from the disease and the recent struggle to prevent what he thought was an attempted murder. His struggle to breathe continued as he looked up at her.

His grandmother wore a slight smile on her face, and she held out a gentle hand to calm him. Rest now, she instructed. You will need time to recover.

Recover? How could he recover? Arthur thought with certainty that he was near death. What? he whispered weakly.

Margaret Beaufort figured there was no easy way around it. Further explanations would come at a later time, so she made the hasty decision to give Arthur the bare minimum of details. You will forget your former life as you knew it. You will forget that you were Prince of Wales, and you will abandon your duty as heir to your father’s throne. She turned from him and walked to the window, pushing aside the drapes and staring out into the bleakness of Wales. You will be relocated in secret several days from Ludlow. There, your training will begin.

Training, Arthur thought, what training? I’ve been training since the age of three to become King of England, and now I must leave that behind and train for something else?

Then another thought struck him. Catalina, he whispered, at once noticing a new clarity in his thinking. What was going on?

Margaret Beaufort shook her head. You are to leave your wife behind. Arthur shook his head. You must. She will move on.

But she will wonder…

As far as she knows, you are dead. Everyone knows you are dead, but us. She paused for a moment, thinking of the confessor, sworn to secrecy, for another boy had been brought by him to Ludlow Castle. Down under the main floors, the body lay waiting, for his death had come about from the Sweat and he had been embalmed so that no one could recognize him. Then the great cover could begin, as would Arthur’s destiny. God has commanded us, she concluded.

God? Arthur wondered, blinking his eyes. Miraculously, with each effort, it became easier and easier for him to open and close them.

Yes, she confirmed. According to history, you have perished, and you will be administered a great honour, a great duty, and a great burden. You will become a servant of God.

Arthur shook his head again, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. He could not take everything in all at once: he would no longer be Prince of Wales or heir to the throne, nor would he see Catalina again, for in her view, he was already dead.

He would be whisked away in secret, and no one would know that he was in actuality still alive. He tried to think about the process of his supposed relocation, but then he grew lightheaded and nauseous, and it suddenly felt as if the room were spinning. He could hear his grandmother’s unusual, soothing voice, but he could not make out any words or phrases. He tried to focus on her figure, but his eyesight was becoming blurry. As his head began to ache, he brought his hands to his throbbing temples, trying to press away the pain, and he closed his eyes. Arthur felt like he was falling, and the feeling of vertigo was overwhelming him, frightening him. He tried to shake his head, but soon he found he could no longer move. Anxiety rose up inside of him, coming in wave after wave until a huge crescendo of panic rushed over him, gathering him into darkness.

Taking one last gasp of air, Arthur fainted dead away.

July 22, 1536

St. James’s Palace

London, England

M ake way for the King! The King approaches! Make way for His Majesty, King Henry!

The chorus of shouts and hollers followed Henry VIII, King of England, as he trounced his way along the elaborate hallways of the palace. He paid no attention to the portraits on the walls, the elegant drapes hanging from the windows, nor the delicate red sashes suspended from the ceilings. He walked right past the heavy tapestries and the pieces of armoury on display. There were many mirrors in place along the walls of the palace, though none caught the forlorn, mournful look revealed in his face.

Several guards and gentlemen followed the King in close succession as he rounded corner after corner and headed down the east hall, where after only a few paces he nearly collided with the palace physician, Dr. Shawe.

Upon his near-collision with the King, Dr. Shawe immediately bowed, pardoning the intrusion into his sovereign’s personal space. The King pursed his lips and continued down the hall at a frenzied pace, the physician following just a half step behind.

Your Majesty, he said in a low, deep voice.

My son, Henry murmured, his own voice betraying a deep melancholy, though he kept his gaze upward: his sharp Tudor pride keeping his fortitude intact in the wake of such impending tragedy. He