The King sat upon his throne in Greenwich Palace feeling thoroughly overwhelmed. It was not the threat of Spanish invasion that unsettled him, nor was it Cardinal Wolsey’s endless ledger books. It was the sudden horrifying realisation that marrying Catalina de Aragón had effectively saddled him with a bewildering network of Spanish relatives.
Specifically, six formidable aunts.
‘Your Majesty,’ whispered his valet, clutching a velvet doublet with trembling hands. ‘The noble ladies have arrived from Valladolid to inspect the court. They insist on seeing you at once.’
Henry sighed, pulling on his broad silk trousers.
‘Show them in then, Compton. Let us get this over with.’
Before the valet could even turn, the heavy oak doors burst open. In marched six stern women draped in black lace, stiff ruffs and heavy rosary beads. Leading the charge was Aunt Doña Inés, a woman whose glare could sour fresh milk at fifty paces. Behind her came Doña Beatriz, Doña Teresa, Doña María, Doña Lucía and Aunt Doña Juana, who carried a silver flask of holy water like a loaded pistol.
‘Enrique,’ Aunt Doña Inés bellowed, her Spanish accent slicing through the cold hall. ‘You look pale. You are not eating proper broth.’
‘I am the King of England,’ Henry said, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. ‘I eat whole roasted swans for breakfast.’
‘Nonsense,’ chimed Doña Beatriz, stepping forward to poke Henry sharply in the stomach with her fan. ‘You look soft. And look at these trousers! They are far too loose. A proper royal man wears trousers that keep his posture straight and his mind on God.’
Before Henry could protest or call for his royal guard, all six aunts descended upon him like a flock of ravenous crows.
‘Hold him still, Beatriz!’ shouted Doña Teresa.
‘I have the needle and golden thread!’ cried Doña Lucía.
‘I shall sprinkle the sacred salt for good luck,’ announced Doña Juana, tossing a handful of salt directly down the back of Henry’s collar.
‘Wait! Stop! I am the Lord of this land!’ Henry bellowed, scrambling backwards. All six aunts were far more coordinated than the entire French army. Doña María pinned his arms behind his back, Doña Inés seized the waistband of his voluminous Tudor pants, and the remaining four began stowing various trinkets, relics and heavy remedies directly into his deep velvet pockets and trousers.
Into the right leg went a heavy silver crucifix, a dried toad’s leg for fertility and two large Seville oranges. Into the left leg went three brass rosaries, a small jar of garlic ointment and a weighty leather-bound prayer book.
‘There,’ Doña Lucía declared, slapping his hip with force. ‘Now you are protected from heresy, bad air and drafty corridors.’
Henry stood frozen in the middle of the Great Hall. His pants weighed nearly four stone. Every time he took a step, an orange knocked against his kneecap, the prayer book pinched his thigh, and the silver crucifix chimed like a church bell against his buckle. He sounded like a walking cutlery drawer.
‘Now,’ Doña Inés said briskly, adjusting her mantilla. ‘Walk for us, Enrique. Show us your royal stride.’
Henry attempted to take a magnificent step forward, but the garlic jar shifted down toward his calf, causing him to hobble sideways like a startled crab. The six aunts clapped in approval, delighted by his newly found humbleness.
When Queen Catalina strolled into the hall a few moments later, she found the King of England stuck against a stone pillar, clinking loudly with every breath and glaring at her extended family.
‘Catherine!’ Henry gasped, his eyes wide with desperation. ‘Remove these women at once or I shall dissolve the monasteries!’
She merely smiled, took a sip of her spiced wine and nodded at her relatives.
‘They only mean well, my love. Besides, Doña Juana says the garlic ointment works wonders for your gout.’
Meanwhile, on the Other Six, not so determined as his Aunts-in-Law:
There once was a King short on grace,
Who swapped out his queens at a pace.
Two lost their heads,
Two died in their beds,
One fled and one finished the race.
