by Jean Plaidy
“So I had believed. But Puebla has told members of the Council that this is not the case. Moreover he has written to the Sovereigns to tell them what, he says, is the true state of affairs.”
“I must see Puebla at once. But first… let the courier be stopped. It is a lie he is carrying to the Sovereigns.”
“I will dispatch a rider to follow him immediately, but I fear we are too late. Nevertheless I will see what can be done.”
“Hurry then!” Doña Elvira commanded. “And have Puebla brought to me immediately. I must stop the spread of this lie.”
Her husband retreated in haste, leaving Doña Elvira to pace up and down the apartment.
She was certain that Katharine was still a virgin. She would have known if it had been otherwise. There had been only the wedding night when they had been together, and they were both too young, too inexperienced… Beside, the King had made his wishes known.
If what that miserable Puebla was saying was true, if Katharine carried a child within her, then she would no longer be exiled to Durham House; she would be at Court, and that would be the end of the rule of Doña Elvira.
“She is a virgin,” she cried aloud. “Of course she is. I would swear to it. And if necessary there could be an examination.”
DR. DE PUEBLA STOOD before Doña Elvira and her husband. He was a little disturbed by the fury of the woman. She was formidable, and moreover he knew that Queen Isabella regarded her highly.
“I want to know,” she shouted, “why you have dared to tell this lie to members of the Council here, and write it to the Sovereigns.”
“What lie is this?”
“You have declared that the marriage was consummated. Where were you on the wedding night, Dr. de Puebla? Peering through the bed curtains?”
“I have it on good authority that the marriage was consummated, Doña Elvira.”
“On whose authority?”
“On that of the Infanta's confessor.”
“Geraldini!” Elvira spat out the word. “That upstart!”
“He assured me that the marriage had been consummated and that there was hope of issue.”
“How had he come into possession of such knowledge?”
“Presumably the Infanta had confessed this to him.”
“He lies. One moment.” Elvira turned to her husband. “Send for Geraldini,” she commanded.
In a few minutes the priest joined them. He was a little pale; like everyone in the household he dreaded the fury of Doña Elvira.
“So,” cried Elvira, “you have informed Dr. de Puebla that the marriage between our Infanta and the Prince of Wales was consummated, and that England may shortly expect an heir.”
Geraldini was silent, his eyes downcast.
“Answer me!” shouted Elvira.
“I…I did verily believe…”
“You verily believed indeed! You verily guessed. You fool! Do you dare then dabble in matters which are so far above you! You should be in your monastery, babbling your prayers in your lonely cell. Such as you have no place in Court circles. Confess that the Infanta never told you that the marriage was consummated!”
“She… she did not tell me, Doña Elvira.”
“Yet you dared tell Dr. de Puebla that you knew this to be so!”
“I thought…”
“I know! You verily believed. You knew nothing. Get out of my sight before I order you to be whipped. Begone… quickly. Idiot! Knave!”
Geraldini was relieved to escape.
As soon as he had gone Elvira turned to Puebla. “You see what this meddling has done. If you wish to know anything concerning the Infanta, you must come to me. There is only one thing to be done. You agree now that this man Geraldini has led you completely astray?”
“I do,” said Puebla.
“Then you should write to the Sovereigns immediately, telling them that there is no truth in the news contained in your previous document. If you are quick, you may prevent that first letter from reaching their Highnesses. Let us pray that the tides are not favorable for a few hours. Go at once and set right this matter.”
Although Puebla resented her high-handed manner, he could not but agree that he must do as she said; and he was indeed eager to write to the Sovereigns, rectifying his mistake.
He bowed himself out and set about the task immediately.
When she was alone with her husband Doña Elvira sat at her table and began to write. She addressed her letter to Her Highness Queen Isabella, and she told of the mischief Father Alessandro Geraldini had wrought against the Infanta. She added that she believed Don Pedro de Ayala's presence in England to be no longer necessary to the welfare of Spain. She hesitated, considering Puebla. He had been docile enough and ready to admit his mistake. She decided that she might be served worse by any other ambassador the Sovereigns saw fit to send. Too many complaints could give the impression that she was hard to please. If because of this matter she could rid the household of Geraldini she would be satisfied.
As she sealed the letter, she remembered that other letter which had angered her before she heard of Geraldini's gossip.
She took it up and thrust it into her husband's hands.
“Read that,” she said.
He read it. “But you had decided …” he began.
She cut him short. “I wish Iñigo to see this. Have him brought here immediately, but first have this letter dispatched to the Sovereigns. I should like it to reach them if possible before they receive Puebla's.”
Don Pedro Manrique obeyed her as, during their married life, he had grown accustomed to; and in a short time he returned to her with their son.
“Ah, Iñigo,” she said, “did I not tell you that I had decided a match with Maria de Rojas would be advantageous to you?”
“You did, Mother.”
“Well then, perhaps you would be interested to read this letter which the Infanta has written to her parents. It is a plea that they should give their consent to the marriage of Maria de Rojas with an Englishman and provide her with a dowry.”
“But, Mother, you…”
“Read it,” she snapped.
Young Iñigo frowned as he read. He felt himself flushing. It was not that he was so eager for marriage with Maria, but that he feared his mother's wrath, and it seemed as though she were ready to blame him—though he could not quite understand why.
“You have finished it?” She took it from him. “We must not allow others to step ahead of us and snatch our prizes from under our noses, must we?”
“No, Mother. But she wishes to marry the Englishman, and the Infanta supports her.”
“It would appear so.” Elvira was thoughtful. “We shall do nothing yet.”
“But in the meantime the Sovereigns may provide the dowry and the consent.”
“Why should they,” said Elvira, “if they do not know it has been asked for?”
“But it is asked for in the Infanta's letter,” her husband pointed out.
Elvira laughed and held the letter in the flame of the candle.
The Passing of Elizabeth of York
THE LONG DAYS OF SPRING AND SUMMER PASSED UNEVENT fully for Katharine. Always she was awaiting the summons to return home.
This did not come, although others had been summoned back to Spain. One was Father Alessandro Geraldini; another was Don Pedro de Ayala.
Doña Elvira had explained their departure to Katharine. Don Pedro de Ayala, she said, was unworthy to represent Spain in England. He led too carnal a life for an ambassador, and a bishop at that. As for Geraldini, he had whispered slander against the Infanta herself, and for such she had demanded his recall.
“Her Highness your mother declares that he is indeed unworthy to remain a member of your household. I thank the saints that I was shown his perfidy in time.”
“What did he say of me?” Katharine wanted to know.
“That you were with child.”
Katharine flushed scarlet at the suggestion, and Elvira felt very co
nfident that, if it should ever come to the point when there must be an examination, her pronouncement would be vindicated.
“I had hoped my mother would send for me,” said Katharine mournfully.
Elvira shook her head. “My dear Highness, it is almost certain that there will be another marriage for you in England. Had you forgotten that the King has another son?”
“Henry!” she whispered; and she thought of the bold boy who had led her to the altar where Arthur had been waiting for her.
“And why not?”
“He is but a boy.”
“A little younger than yourself. When he is a little older that will be of small account.”
Henry! Katharine was startled and a little afraid. She wanted to escape from Elvira, to think about this project.
That night she could not sleep. Henry haunted her thoughts and she was not sure whether she was pleased or afraid.
She waited for more news of this, but none came.
It was so difficult to know what was happening at home. There were only fragments of news she heard now and then. The war for Naples, in which her parents were engaged against the King of France, was not going well for them. That, she believed, was why the King of England was hesitating over her betrothal to his son. If the Sovereigns were in difficulties he could make a harsher bargain with them. He did not forget that only half her dowry had been paid.
So the months went by without much news. She found that she had very little money—not even enough to pay her servants. She was worried about Maria's dowry, for there was no news from Spain about this.
The King of England said that she had no right to a third of the property of her late husband, because the second half of her dowry had not been paid. She needed new dresses, but there was no money to buy any. There was her plate and jewels, which represented thirty-five thousand crowns; could she pawn these? She dared not do so because she knew that they had been sent from home as part of her dowry; but if she had no money, what could she do?
There were times when she felt deserted, for she was not allowed to go to Court.
“She is a widow,” said the King of England. “It is well that she should live in seclusion for a while.”
Henry had his eyes on the Continent. It might be that, as the French seemed likely to score a victory over the Spaniards, a marriage for his son with France or with the House of Maximilian might be more advantageous than one with Spain.
Meanwhile, living in England was the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand— a Princess, but penniless, a wife but no wife, virtually a hostage for her parents' good behavior.
It was no concern of his that she suffered poverty, said the King. He could not be expected to pay an allowance to the woman whose dowry had not been paid.
Puebla came to see her, shaking his head sadly. He also had received no money from Spain. It was fortunate that he had other means of making a living in England.
“They are using every maravedi for the wars, Highness,” he said. “We must perforce be patient.”
Katharine sometimes cried herself to sleep when her maids of honor had left her.
“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed, “what is happening at home? Why do you not send for me? Why do you not bring me out of this… prison?”
IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS. A whole year, thought Katharine, since she had come to England, and during that time she had married and become a widow; yet it seemed that she had been a prisoner in Durham House for a very long time.
She was not to join the Court at Richmond for the Christmas celebrations: She was a widow, in mourning. Moreover the King of England wished the Spanish Sovereigns to know that he was not showering honors on their daughter, since half her dowry was still owing to him and he was not very eager to make a further alliance with their House.
Maria de Rojas was fretful. “No news from home?” she was continually demanding. “How strange that the Queen does not answer your request about my marriage.” Maria was anxious, for shut up in Durham House she had no opportunity of seeing her lover. She wondered what was happening to him and whether he was still eager for the marriage.
Francesca declared that she would go mad if they had to remain in England much longer; even gentle Maria de Salinas was restive.
But the days passed, all so like each other that Katharine almost lost count of time except that she knew that with each passing week she owed the members of her household more and more, and that Christmas was coming and they would have no money for celebrations, for gifts or even to provide a little Christmas cheer for their table.
It was in November that Queen Elizabeth came to Durham House to call on Katharine.
Katharine was shocked when she saw Elizabeth, because she had changed a great deal since they had last met. The Queen was far advanced in pregnancy and she did not look healthy.
The Queen wished to be alone with Katharine, and as they sat together near the fire, Elizabeth said: “It distresses me to see you thus. I have come to tell you how sorry I am, and have brought food for your table. I know how you have been placed.”
“How kind you are!” said Katharine.
The Queen laid her hand over the Infanta's. “Do not forget you are my daughter.”
“I fear the King does not think of me as such. I am sorry the dowry has not been paid. I am sure my parents would have paid it, if they were not engaged in war at this time.”
“I know, my dear. Wars… there seem always to be wars. We are fortunate in England. Here we have a King who likes not war, and I am glad of that. I have seen too much war in my life. But let us talk of more pleasant things. I could wish you were joining the Court for Christmas.”
“We shall do well enough here.”
“I envy you the quiet of Durham House,” said the Queen.
“Tell me when your child is expected.”
“In February.” The Queen shivered. “The coldest month.”
Katharine looked into the face of the older woman and saw there a resigned look; she wondered what it meant.
“I trust you will have a Prince,” Katharine murmured.
“Pray that I may have a healthy child. I have lost two at an early age. It is so sad when they live a little and then die. So much suffering… that one may endure more suffering.”
“You have three healthy children left to you. I have never seen such sparkling health as Henry's.”
“Henry, Margaret and Mary… they all enjoy good health, do they not? My life has taught me not to hope for too much. But I did not come to talk of myself, but of you.”
“Of me!”
“Yes, of you. I guessed how you would be feeling. Here you live almost a prisoner, one might say, in a strange country, while plans are made for your future. I understand, for I have not had an easy life. There has been so much strife. I can remember being taken into the Sanctuary of Westminster by my mother. My little brothers were with us then. You have heard that they were lost to us…murdered, I dare swear. You see, I have come to tell you that I feel sympathy for you because I myself have suffered.”
“I shall never forget how kind you are.”
“Remember this: suffering does not last for ever. One day you will come out of this prison. You will be happy again. Do not despair. That is what I have come to say to you.”
“And you came through the cold to tell me that?”
“It may be my last opportunity.”
“I hope that I may come and see you when the child is born.”
The Queen smiled faintly and looked a little sad.
“Do not look like that,” Katharine cried out in sudden panic. She was thinking of her sister Isabella, who had come back to Spain to have her child, the little Miguel who had died before he was two years old. Isabella had had some premonition of death.
She expected some reproof from the Queen for her outburst, but Elizabeth of York, who knew what had happened to the young Isabella, understood full well the trend of her thoughts.
She stood up and kissed K
atharine's brow. That kiss was like a last farewell.
IT WAS CANDLEMAS-DAY and the cold February winds buffeted the walls of the Palace of the Tower of London, although the Queen was unaware of them.
She lay on her bed, racked by pain, telling herself: It will soon be over. And after this, should I live through it, there cannot be many more. If this could be a son…if only this could be a son!
Then briefly she wondered how many Queens had lain in these royal apartments and prayed: Let this be a son.
It must be a son, she told herself, for this will be the last.
She was trying to shake off this premonition which had been with her since she knew she was to have another child. If her confinement could have taken place anywhere but in this Tower of London she would have felt happier. She hated the place. Sometimes when she was alone at night she fancied she could hear the voices of her brothers calling her. She wondered then if they called her from some nearby grave.
This was a sign of her weakness. Edward and Richard were dead. Of that she was certain. The manner of their dying could be of little importance to them now. Would they come back to this troublous Earth even if they could? For what purpose? To denounce their uncle as a murderer? To engage in battle against their sister's husband for the crown?
“Edward! Richard!” she whispered. “Is it true that somewhere within the gray walls of these towers your little bodies lie buried?”
A child was coming into the world. Its mother should not think of the other children—even though they were her own brothers—who had been driven out of it before their time.
Think of pleasant things, she commanded herself: Of rowing down the river with her ladies, with good Lewis Walter, her bargeman, and his merry watermen; think of the Christmas festivities at Richmond. The minstrels and the reciters had been more engaging than usual. She smiled, thinking of her chief minstrel who was always called Marquis Lorydon. What genius! What power to please! And the others—Janyn Marcourse and Richard Denouse— had almost as much talent as Lorydon. Her fool, Patch, had been in great form last Christmas; she had laughed lightheartedly at his antics with Goose, young Henry's fool.
