Good plan. Besides, that timeline is of the type where you can probably come back to quite easily when you get inspiration
The Autobiography of Arthur
- Thread starter LacheyS
- Start date
Good plan. Besides, that timeline is of the type where you can probably come back to quite easily when you get inspiration
I am not sure if the use of the word "pretty" was intentional. It would seem like an odd comment to make in Modern English anyway
Small and set in fields, it was built by my pretty grandfather
Small and set in fields, it was built by my pretty grandfather
While "pretty" has always meant attractive, it appears as though, in this era, it was implicitly insulting. "Beautiful" was the preferred word, whereas "pretty" implied that there was little going on behind the face. Edward IV was very good-looking by the standards of the day; I'm trying to suggest that Arthur thinks he was dumb.
I dropped the "thees and thines" but I want to see if I can occasionally include a word from the era.
Looks like we really love making ol' Henry a cardinal.
Why not? Mum and Dad had him earmarked for an archbishopric when he was born.....
Why not? Mum and Dad had him earmarked for an archbishopric when he was born.....
Other than that, it scores irony points.
I hope you continue this autobiography and look forward to reading your future works.
III.
Ludlow Castle is where I now lived, save for Christmas, Easter and Whitsun when the royal children were demanded at court. There were some benefits to going to court. Father would pay for new clothes and gifts. And there was affection from the Queen, my mother. Father continually called attention to the fact that I was present, suggesting I was the cause of the holidays. Great shouts would arise on cue and the faces were full of eager belief as if they accepted his prophecy of my greatness without question.
I was returning to Ludlow in my eighth year after one such occasion. Winter had stayed on that year and the grounds remained frozen and covered in snow. The journey usually took a week and, while on horseback, I could not gallop because we needed to keep pace with the carriages and rumbling carts. And then we were in a clearing, looking down on the Teme bathed in the flat rays of the low sun, with the great towers rising above.
With me was the now adult Griffith Ryce, whose father was one of the King's most loyal subjects, a veteran of Bosworth Field. Ryce was my first friend in Wales. As we approached the castle, we shared a look. "Shall we run the horses, Your Grace?", he asked.
"Of course," I said and, spurring the mount, we galloped madly toward the castle. We were both laughing so loudly that we could safely ignore the calls from behind. We reached the gates, but they were not open. Disgruntled, I called out and soon found an angry-looking boy glaring through. "And who are you?" he said.
"I am Arthur, Prince of Wales," I replied stiffly. He looked disbelieving, then surprised, looking to Griffith, who nodded.
"All right, then, your Highness, please come in." Griffith went on through, but I stayed where I was.
"And who are you?" I asked.
He turned, wearing an amused expression. "I am Robert Radcliffe," he replied as if I might know him. "And I am at your service, my Prince." He grinned and bowed; this boy, who turned out to be only three years my senior, declared himself mine. From Robert, this never seemed to be just a phrase. It became a bond between us as we grasped hands, like David and Jonathan. It was a binding which would last us all our lives – Arthur and Sussex.
A conversation of only minutes confirmed to me that Radcliffe thought as highly of my Father as I did. He chose his words carefully, but his tone of voice gave him away. Immediately, I liked Radcliffe better. We walked in step through the castle grounds.
One evening in the following years when I was about eleven, Radcliffe and I were headed to a banquet in the Great Hall at Richmond Palace. We had just been practicing instruments (we were expected to be well trained in lute, virginals, flute and organ). As we came into the Hall, there was a fair blaze of yellow. There were many candles on the long tables that ran along the hall, with the royal dais and table in between them.
As soon as we entered, a man appeared and addressed himself to me. “Your Graces are to be seated near the King at the first table, so that you may see all the show clearly.” He led us through a forest of velvet cloaks until I reached my parents’ table.
“Who is he?” I asked Radcliffe. He knew everybody.
“He is the Earl of Surrey, Thomas Howard. He used to be the Duke of Norfolk.” When I looked blank, he said, “He is the current head of the Howard family; they were supporters of Richard III. That is why they are now earls and not dukes. He is showing his loyalty by caring for royal children.” He laughed spitefully. “Maybe, one day, he will be a Duke once more. At least, this is what he hopes.” He gave me a serious look. “The Howards are a huge and powerful family, Arthur, and they are everywhere.” Indeed. The Howard family would play many roles in my life and eventually, our houses were even bound in marriage. But many of those Howards were unborn that night.
A sudden fanfare broke into the babble in the Hall. Instantly the people fell silent and musicians struck up a slow processional march as the King and Queen entered with the King’s mother. They were followed by the Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Morton; Lord Privy Seal, Bishop Foxe; and Bishop Ruthall, who would later serve as one of my Lords Privy Seal.
I was ecstatic to see my mother and I could not look away from the Queen. She reminded me of the ivory figure of the Virgin in my rooms to which I prayed each night. She was a slender and beautiful woman, but her smile was always a sad one. She walked beside the King with her eyes straight ahead, her blue robe and golden jewelled cap making her seem ethereal and remote. We locked eyes and she approached and touched my face. I cannot recall what words we exchanged, even though she had never touched me thus before and the number of times we had spoken privately were less than my years.
Then the King was speaking and his voice was flat as he welcomed the court. Of course, a special welcome was made to his beloved son and heir, who had to stand up again for public presentation to the revellers. He then called on the servers. The courses were far too many to consume and I had a few crayfish, along with some watered wine and manchet. The grand dessert was a sugared replica of Richmond Palace. The jesters and mimes went on forever, but at last it ended. The King rose and prodded me to do the same. Nobody stirred until the whole family had left the dais.
As we progressed into the King’s apartments, the King, Margaret Beaufort all in black and Cardinal Morton were locked in discussion. The Queen wandered behind lost in her own thoughts, while I followed with the children. As we enter the apartments, I felt disappointment with Father. His rooms were even smaller and less well-furnished. The floor was uneven and undressed. It was, in spite of fire, cold as drafts made the candles flicker and sway. He smiled nervously at the Queen and she took my hand. “My children,” she said, “We are thankful to have our family home with us. We shall now present you with gifts.”
She motioned and an usher brought forth a tray of gifts for us each. “To Arthur”. I went up to receive my gift and returned to my seat, only to be yelled at by Father.
“No, boy!”, he said harshly. “You open presents!!”
Obediently, I tore off the wrapping. There was something white and soft underneath. As it fell across my knees, I saw that it was a cloak of velvet trimmed in ermine. I stood and shook it out, but it was not of a size which I might wear. I looked at my parents as they looked at me, expectantly. “Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother,” I said.
“Well, put the thing on!” said the King, now beaming. I did, but it was clearly too large and draped around the floor. I felt a hideous spectacle, but the King waved this off. “Of course it is large. It is for your wedding,” he said.
“Of course,” I replied as I peeled it off and returned it to the chamber attendants. Margaret received a pearl headdress in preparation for her eventual wedding. Henry received a Book of Hours, to prepare him for his marriage to the Church. The afternoon continued with a strained merriment. The King spent much time with his mother and the Queen did not speak, but sat fidgeting in the chair and attempting to listen in on their whispered conversations. Occasionally, I caught enough words to know it had something to do with Cornwall.
As I tried to piece it together, a messenger burst into the room and blurted it out wildly. “Your Grace, the Cornish number some eight thousand. They have captured Winchester. Warbeck has been crowned!” He went across to the King and his mother and began to consult in alarm. However, the Queen had gone very pale. Suddenly, she rose and came towards us.
“It is late,” she said. “You must return to your rooms and I will send for the mistress.” She wanted us gone just when I most wanted to stay. As we walked back to the nursery, I could feel the cold again, with the open passageway channelling the wind. As I thought on my bed that night, I realised why the King had sent for us. He was trying to show his nobles how secure, mighty and wealthy he was, with his phalanx of established heirs, and a treasonous dog was attempting to pull it all down. It became clear that patience can never be used against a potential enemy; one must always be on guard and ensure that they are destroyed. And the most frightening thing was the realisation that night that neither my Father’s throne – nor my future – was as secure as I had believed.
The Cornish were, of course, eventually defeated. The pretender Warbeck was locked securely in the fortress of the Tower of London. And Father began making plans to put into effect my long-standing betrothal to Princess Catherine of Aragon with the hope of it finally leading to a wedding. The King was determined that I should have a woman settled into my bed as quickly as possible.
Ludlow Castle is where I now lived, save for Christmas, Easter and Whitsun when the royal children were demanded at court. There were some benefits to going to court. Father would pay for new clothes and gifts. And there was affection from the Queen, my mother. Father continually called attention to the fact that I was present, suggesting I was the cause of the holidays. Great shouts would arise on cue and the faces were full of eager belief as if they accepted his prophecy of my greatness without question.
I was returning to Ludlow in my eighth year after one such occasion. Winter had stayed on that year and the grounds remained frozen and covered in snow. The journey usually took a week and, while on horseback, I could not gallop because we needed to keep pace with the carriages and rumbling carts. And then we were in a clearing, looking down on the Teme bathed in the flat rays of the low sun, with the great towers rising above.
With me was the now adult Griffith Ryce, whose father was one of the King's most loyal subjects, a veteran of Bosworth Field. Ryce was my first friend in Wales. As we approached the castle, we shared a look. "Shall we run the horses, Your Grace?", he asked.
"Of course," I said and, spurring the mount, we galloped madly toward the castle. We were both laughing so loudly that we could safely ignore the calls from behind. We reached the gates, but they were not open. Disgruntled, I called out and soon found an angry-looking boy glaring through. "And who are you?" he said.
"I am Arthur, Prince of Wales," I replied stiffly. He looked disbelieving, then surprised, looking to Griffith, who nodded.
"All right, then, your Highness, please come in." Griffith went on through, but I stayed where I was.
"And who are you?" I asked.
He turned, wearing an amused expression. "I am Robert Radcliffe," he replied as if I might know him. "And I am at your service, my Prince." He grinned and bowed; this boy, who turned out to be only three years my senior, declared himself mine. From Robert, this never seemed to be just a phrase. It became a bond between us as we grasped hands, like David and Jonathan. It was a binding which would last us all our lives – Arthur and Sussex.
A conversation of only minutes confirmed to me that Radcliffe thought as highly of my Father as I did. He chose his words carefully, but his tone of voice gave him away. Immediately, I liked Radcliffe better. We walked in step through the castle grounds.
One evening in the following years when I was about eleven, Radcliffe and I were headed to a banquet in the Great Hall at Richmond Palace. We had just been practicing instruments (we were expected to be well trained in lute, virginals, flute and organ). As we came into the Hall, there was a fair blaze of yellow. There were many candles on the long tables that ran along the hall, with the royal dais and table in between them.
As soon as we entered, a man appeared and addressed himself to me. “Your Graces are to be seated near the King at the first table, so that you may see all the show clearly.” He led us through a forest of velvet cloaks until I reached my parents’ table.
“Who is he?” I asked Radcliffe. He knew everybody.
“He is the Earl of Surrey, Thomas Howard. He used to be the Duke of Norfolk.” When I looked blank, he said, “He is the current head of the Howard family; they were supporters of Richard III. That is why they are now earls and not dukes. He is showing his loyalty by caring for royal children.” He laughed spitefully. “Maybe, one day, he will be a Duke once more. At least, this is what he hopes.” He gave me a serious look. “The Howards are a huge and powerful family, Arthur, and they are everywhere.” Indeed. The Howard family would play many roles in my life and eventually, our houses were even bound in marriage. But many of those Howards were unborn that night.
A sudden fanfare broke into the babble in the Hall. Instantly the people fell silent and musicians struck up a slow processional march as the King and Queen entered with the King’s mother. They were followed by the Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Morton; Lord Privy Seal, Bishop Foxe; and Bishop Ruthall, who would later serve as one of my Lords Privy Seal.
I was ecstatic to see my mother and I could not look away from the Queen. She reminded me of the ivory figure of the Virgin in my rooms to which I prayed each night. She was a slender and beautiful woman, but her smile was always a sad one. She walked beside the King with her eyes straight ahead, her blue robe and golden jewelled cap making her seem ethereal and remote. We locked eyes and she approached and touched my face. I cannot recall what words we exchanged, even though she had never touched me thus before and the number of times we had spoken privately were less than my years.
Then the King was speaking and his voice was flat as he welcomed the court. Of course, a special welcome was made to his beloved son and heir, who had to stand up again for public presentation to the revellers. He then called on the servers. The courses were far too many to consume and I had a few crayfish, along with some watered wine and manchet. The grand dessert was a sugared replica of Richmond Palace. The jesters and mimes went on forever, but at last it ended. The King rose and prodded me to do the same. Nobody stirred until the whole family had left the dais.
As we progressed into the King’s apartments, the King, Margaret Beaufort all in black and Cardinal Morton were locked in discussion. The Queen wandered behind lost in her own thoughts, while I followed with the children. As we enter the apartments, I felt disappointment with Father. His rooms were even smaller and less well-furnished. The floor was uneven and undressed. It was, in spite of fire, cold as drafts made the candles flicker and sway. He smiled nervously at the Queen and she took my hand. “My children,” she said, “We are thankful to have our family home with us. We shall now present you with gifts.”
She motioned and an usher brought forth a tray of gifts for us each. “To Arthur”. I went up to receive my gift and returned to my seat, only to be yelled at by Father.
“No, boy!”, he said harshly. “You open presents!!”
Obediently, I tore off the wrapping. There was something white and soft underneath. As it fell across my knees, I saw that it was a cloak of velvet trimmed in ermine. I stood and shook it out, but it was not of a size which I might wear. I looked at my parents as they looked at me, expectantly. “Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother,” I said.
“Well, put the thing on!” said the King, now beaming. I did, but it was clearly too large and draped around the floor. I felt a hideous spectacle, but the King waved this off. “Of course it is large. It is for your wedding,” he said.
“Of course,” I replied as I peeled it off and returned it to the chamber attendants. Margaret received a pearl headdress in preparation for her eventual wedding. Henry received a Book of Hours, to prepare him for his marriage to the Church. The afternoon continued with a strained merriment. The King spent much time with his mother and the Queen did not speak, but sat fidgeting in the chair and attempting to listen in on their whispered conversations. Occasionally, I caught enough words to know it had something to do with Cornwall.
As I tried to piece it together, a messenger burst into the room and blurted it out wildly. “Your Grace, the Cornish number some eight thousand. They have captured Winchester. Warbeck has been crowned!” He went across to the King and his mother and began to consult in alarm. However, the Queen had gone very pale. Suddenly, she rose and came towards us.
“It is late,” she said. “You must return to your rooms and I will send for the mistress.” She wanted us gone just when I most wanted to stay. As we walked back to the nursery, I could feel the cold again, with the open passageway channelling the wind. As I thought on my bed that night, I realised why the King had sent for us. He was trying to show his nobles how secure, mighty and wealthy he was, with his phalanx of established heirs, and a treasonous dog was attempting to pull it all down. It became clear that patience can never be used against a potential enemy; one must always be on guard and ensure that they are destroyed. And the most frightening thing was the realisation that night that neither my Father’s throne – nor my future – was as secure as I had believed.
The Cornish were, of course, eventually defeated. The pretender Warbeck was locked securely in the fortress of the Tower of London. And Father began making plans to put into effect my long-standing betrothal to Princess Catherine of Aragon with the hope of it finally leading to a wedding. The King was determined that I should have a woman settled into my bed as quickly as possible.
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You could write a historical novel on all this.
Well, no; I don't think I could do the sex scenes.
In the next episode, Arthur and Catherine will wed.
wolf_brother
Banned
Well, no; I don't think I could do the sex scenes.
In the next episode, Arthur and Catherine will wed.
If Turtledove can do it anyone can
In all seriousness though I'm rather enjoying this, especially the style. Keep it coming!
Well, no; I don't think I could do the sex scenes.
In the next episode, Arthur and Catherine will wed.
Doesn't really matter if you're aiming for a YA audience. And that stuff isn't for this site.
Awesome couple of updates Lachey's; I just ave to say that man was Henry Tudor VII a miserly old bastard wasn't he lol. I think the King will allways tend to look down on his first-born son as weak, due his physique and sickliness.And that reminds me, I was wondering Lachey if you had any good books or scources about Arthur that your using to write this TL? I've been looking on Amazon and Google Books for a good Biography about him, and I realy havent found one
If Turtledove can do it anyone can
In all seriousness though I'm rather enjoying this, especially the style. Keep it coming!
I was referring to Turtledove's effort.
My belief (and it could be accurate) is that Arthur had some difficulty consummating the marriage. I know he declared to everyone that he was a potent stud the night after the wedding, but he was a teenage boy and, as an adult, Catherine later said the marriage had never been consummated. I'm inclined to believe she was telling the truth.
Awesome couple of updates Lachey's; I just ave to say that man was Henry Tudor VII a miserly old bastard wasn't he lol. I think the King will allways tend to look down on his first-born son as weak, due his physique and sickliness.And that reminds me, I was wondering Lachey if you had any good books or scources about Arthur that your using to write this TL? I've been looking on Amazon and Google Books for a good Biography about him, and I realy havent found one
Henry VII was trying to repair a country which had just been through decades of brutal civil war and efforts to restore the economy made sense; it just didn't sit well with his people. BTW, there is little evidence to support the idea of Arthur as a sick weakling. As a matter of fact, there is very little evidence and few sources I could find for him. The scattered details I have put together from websites (his close friendships with Griffith and Radcliffe, his tutors names, etc) are already included. The rest is my voice; Arthur is resentful of his father because I can imagine myself feeling resentful in that situation. I'm just guessing, really, as to how events may have shaped his character.
Mucho gracias.
I was referring to Turtledove's effort.
My belief (and it could be accurate) is that Arthur had some difficulty consummating the marriage. I know he declared to everyone that he was a potent stud the night after the wedding, but he was a teenage boy and, as an adult, Catherine later said the marriage had never been consummated. I'm inclined to believe she was telling the truth.
Henry VII was trying to repair a country which had just been through decades of brutal civil war and efforts to restore the economy made sense; it just didn't sit well with his people. BTW, there is little evidence to support the idea of Arthur as a sick weakling. As a matter of fact, there is very little evidence and few sources I could find for him. The scattered details I have put together from websites (his close friendships with Griffith and Radcliffe, his tutors names, etc) are already included. The rest is my voice; Arthur is resentful of his father because I can imagine myself feeling resentful in that situation. I'm just guessing, really, as to how events may have shaped his character.
Mucho gracias.
Inexperienced teenage boy syndrome?
Ahh, interesting. I wondered if there was some sort of explanation along those lines, hence my qualification.
Subscribed, LacheyS!
Welcome and thanks for coming over.
Inexperienced teenage boy syndrome?
Yes, pretty much. You'll see how I've handled it shortly.
I'm trying to stick to my vernacular, but assume the odd word occasionally.
IV.
I had been betrothed almost from birth, to be crossed with another royal house. Father, aiming high, selected Spain as the obvious preference so as to offer no benefit to the French. If Spain would give its princess to the Tudor dynasty, then it would give legitimacy to our rule and would show the remainder of Europe that the latest English usurpers were true Kings. Because of Catherine’s ancestry through John of Gaunt, it would end any reservations about the sanctity of Tudor blood and our children would be viewed as equally legitimate in the eyes of every other court.
At the time I began writing to Catherine, England was still not a civilised country in the style of Spain or France. Because of our horrible dynastic wars, we were perceived as being barbaric and backward, not as bad as the Scots or the Norse, but not quite as good as the remainder.
It did take some time for culture to reach us. Glass windows were unheard of in England at this time and the fork was yet to appear among us. People spat and threw scraps on their floors. Everybody wore wool and ate bread and beef. The King slept on a trestle bed and pillows were spared for childbirth. Humanism was suspect because it was foreign. Our great lords kept retainers long after the European princes had concentrated military power. Musicians played outdated tunes on old instruments. Parliament was summoned only to raise money, never to discuss the state, and even then, it was hard to get people to pay up. At this time, Italian princes were living in open, sunlit villas, working on desks of inlaid marble, dining from the finest of foods.
Is it little wonder that European ambassadors viewed a posting to England as exile, where they would endure strange customs amongst strange people? They would pray to endure until they could go to a real court. Certainly, the English people would think that their king was marvellous and grand. They knew no better, but we did. And so did foreigners, who used to mock the King for his shabby and unfashionable awkwardness. I was now at an age where I began to understand that, in spite of the signed treaties promising to do so, the Spanish were actually reluctant to send their daughter. I understood that France and the Empire never met with our leaders, never came to our courts or invited us to theirs.
I hoped for a different reign, one fill with such honour and strength that it would change our whole world. I saw the possibility of defining the Golden Age that Father had promised. I was being praised as the paradigm of brilliant promise. To hear others, I was the prodigy of stunning looks, a graceful reincarnation of great kings past. And, as the time passed, I recognised it was a role which I had to play. The marriage was to happen and the Spanish Princess would be in England within two months. There would be a royal wedding and Father would be forced to spend money as the eyes of Europe focused on our court. There would be great banquets and pageants to celebrate my marriage and public fountains would be running with wine. I would also get clothes that with sleeves to the wrist and breeches which allowed room for my backside.
Because Catherine did not land at Dover, as expected, but was forced by storms to land at Plymouth, it was decided that I should not go to meet her. I had lately been ill, as I was for much of this period, and had to stay indoors near fire to conserve my strength for the wedding. Father went with Henry to fetch Catherine to her new home. The wedding was to take place on 14 November and Father made it clear that I should have an heir within two years, twelve months if possible. He wanted his baby by Christmas of the following year; indeed, he thought it was his due.
Catherine and I met briefly Dogmersfield House. I heard her voice before I saw her and it was a low voice and sweet. Then she emerged in a gown, free of any headdress and her hair unarranged. She was beautiful, like Andromeda, chained to her rock, awaiting rescue by the hands of Perseus. I loved her – then and there. Doubtless, I was only a boy and I had not spoken to her. I loved her with a sudden burst of devotion which quite took me by surprise. We quickly found, to my profound disappointment, that we have learned different pronunciations of Latin and it was hard to speak to each other. Basic pleasantries were a struggle for us both.
I felt incredibly unenthusiastic and, as the wedding day approached, listless. I went to Henry’s chambers to confess that I didn’t want any part of it; he was ten by then. I was wearing the white velvet cape as he insisted that I just had to go ahead with things and think about it later. I knew that was something I definitely wanted to avoid considering. Another part of Henry’s youthful advice had some ring of truth, however; he warned that I was frightened and that I should not let people know. “If you do, it will be bad for you,” he said. I had to learn to mask my fear, stamp it down inside me. With studied casualness, I made a joke and we laughed, and I learned that it is best to hide what you think.
The wedding day was clear and warm, falling within the last sun before winter. The warmth meant that the crowds would be very excited as Henry, Duke of York, escorted their future Queen from Westminster Palace to St. Paul’s Cathedral. We were both to travel on white horses, and be attired in white and cloth-of-silver, as befitted virgins. Together, we would make such a white spot that the blind would have sight restored.
According to Father’s census takers, there were more than one hundred thousand people living in London in those days. I think that they were all out that day, watching us. Truly, I had never imagined that people could exist in such number. I wish that I had sufficiently well to truly enjoy it.
The road Catherine took followed the Thames. To the right stood the large houses of the nobles and bishops, each with narrow gardens leading down to the river. Across the river was Lambeth Palace, home of the Archbishop, which weathered pink in the midday sun. Not far from there is the area known as Southwark. Taverns and houses of prostitution thrive in the shadow of the archbishop’s palace. In fact, the Bishop of Winchester is such a regular visitor to one of these large, bawdy houses that the women there all bear nicknames he gave.
At length, she approached Ludgate Hill. A raised walkway had been constructed before the Cathedral entrance and covered with a white silk carpet which she walked down the great aisle to the altar. It was there that I took her hand. I found it cold. It was dim inside and the Cathedral seemed like an enormous chasm gleaming with gold and light. However, I looked into her eyes and saw only fear. Beneath the veiled white headdress, she appeared unwell.
I wished to speak to her to ease her fear but stopped. I simply put my hands over hers and smiled. We were two pale moths amongst the candles of the great nave.
The wedding banquet following the ceremony was opulent. Enormous tables ran the length of Westminster Hall, heavy with golden plates piled with extravagant dishes and pastries. I spotted De la Membrelya, the envoy of my new father-in-law looking over everything with a harsh eye. To anyone else, it may have locked as though he was deciding on a dish, but I suspect that, in reality, he was making a catalogue for Ferdinand. He caught my eye and looked away ashamed.
In all honesty, I hardly remember the day, but I remember what I was feeling. Poor Catherine had no family anymore other than mine. My grandmother Beaufort was there, showing visible relief. Her grandson had safely taken a wife and the future of the family was no longer in jeopardy. She was cooing over my five-year-old cousin, Henry Courtenay. I also remember that, the more I looked at my wife, the more anxious I became. I wished it all to be over or go on forever.
I had never been with a woman. Given that I have been guarded or sequestered since the day I was born, constantly watched by the King, is it hardly surprising? Invitations from serving girls were interesting, but I assumed my virginal state would be obvious and that I would become the subject of ridicule. In the beginning, I was too frightened; later, I was too old. Now, I had to take a woman to bed. The young Arthur, hope of the nation, was feeling timid and lacking self-assurance.
We were alone in the Retiring Room. The entire court had humiliated us with the “putting the couple to bed” observance. Our attendants took us behind separate screens and undressed us. Then we were led out, like lambs to the slaughter, in our night garments to bed. Embarrassed and awkward, we climbed the stairs into the bed and then we were covered.
At last, they were gone and we turned and face each other. I felt absurd in my ceremonial nightclothes and put my hand under the pillow, only to find some sort of twig. I had no idea what it was, but it smelled sweet. She reached up and began to unpin her hair, which fell down over her shoulder. It was our first chance to talk to each other, but we could not. I leaned toward her and kissed her. Her lips were warm and plump. I felt her extraordinary breasts. And then we detached. Desire gave way to shyness as she pulled away.
She looked terrified and tense. Making soothing sounds, I took her dainty body and pressed it against mine, sliding around her and kissing her gently. It was not easy, after all. In fact, it seems to be prescribed that, like everything else I was ever required to do physically, this thing, too, I would find hard. It took some time for one virgin to be sure of another, though I knew that my insecurities had to be my own. The people must never doubt that their future king and queen were anything but in love, and that their king was especially virile. Eventually, Catherine and I explored other prescriptions for our tensions which coincidentally coincided with the need of the Tudor dynasty for heirs.
That's actually, well,...quite sweet (and i'm a guy) Ah well. I'm in love with a girl myself, so i can relate.