November 14, 1501
A thrill ran through me as I watched the jousts. At 10 years old, I couldn't yet participate. But I could marvel at it all- the way the horses galloped with powerful muscles rippling beneath shining coats; the clangs and clashes of weapons colliding. A knight would sometimes be unhorsed or wounded, and the heralds, with great pomp and ceremony, would announce the victor. I pictured myself as the winner, proud atop a great white stallion.
It was a day of merriment because my older brother Arthur had married the Spanish princess, Catherine of Aragon. I hadn't met her yet, but when I left for the banquets, I spotted her: a fine, petite lady of tender years with fair golden hair and sky-blue eyes. I was instantly spellbound- and envious. My thin, sickly older brother possessed the most beautiful lady I'd ever seen. Why did everything always fall into Arthur's lap? The crown, the wife...
The banquets distracted me. The tables were laden with all kinds of drinks and delicacies. The soft crusts of pies melted in my mouth, the pastries left a cloying scent of sugar hanging in the air, the roasted meats sang on my tastebuds. Rich fruits and cheese beckoned to me even after I'd had my fill of food. I downed goblet after goblet of wine and ale, and felt encouraged to dance about by the drink and the lively tunes. I felt content... except there was something missing.
Two things, really. The title of Prince of Wales, and Catherine of Aragon at my side.