Katharine of Aragon

by Jean Plaidy

  “Highness,” they said, “you should be at your prayers.”

  She turned to them, her eyes wide and wild. “I have prayed so much,” she said quietly, “and my prayers have rarely been answered. I prayed for love. It was denied me. So why should I pray for life?”

  The women exchanged glances. There is no doubt, said those looks, the madness is near.

  One of them whispered: “Your mother would wish you to pray if she were here.”

  Juana was silent and they knew that she was thinking of Queen Isabella.

  “I must do what she would wish,” she murmured as though to herself. Then she shouted: “Come, help me dress. Find my richest gown and put it on me. Then bring me a purse of gold pieces.”

  “Your richest dress, Highness,” stammered one of the women.

  “That is what I said. My richest dress and gold which shall be strapped to my body. When I am washed up on some distant shore I would not have them say: ‘Here is a woman done to death by the sea' but ‘Here is a Queen!' That is what my mother would wish. I will write a note to say that the money is for my burial…a Queen's burial. Come, why do you stand there? There may be little time left. We can scarcely hear ourselves speak now. We can scarcely keep upright. My dress… the purse…”

  She was laughing wildly as they went to obey her.

  IN HER CEREMONIAL GOWN, her purse strapped firmly to her waist, Juana stumbled to her husband's cabin. She scarcely recognized Philip the Handsome in the pale-faced man who shouted orders in a high voice cracked with fear, while his attendants helped him into an inflated leather jacket. Where was the swaggering heir of Maximilian now? The fair hair was in disorder, there were smudges of fatigue under the blue eyes, and the beautiful mouth was petulant and afraid.

  “Come,” screamed Philip. “Is this thing safe? Fasten it. Do you think we have hours to waste. At any minute…”

  Even as he spoke there was a sudden cry of “Fire!” and an ominous flickering light rapidly lightened the darkness.

  Juana, standing serene now in her rich garments, said in a voice much calmer than usual: “The ship is on fire.”

  “On fire!” shouted Philip. “Put out the fire. Put out the fire. What will become of us!”

  Don Juan Manuel, who was accompanying the royal party to Spain, said quietly: “All that can be done is being done, Highness.”

  “Where are the rest of the ships? Are they standing by?”

  “Highness, we have lost the rest of the ships. The storm has scattered them.”

  “Then what is to be done? We are doomed.”

  No one answered, and then Philip turned and looked into the face of his wife who stood beside him. They seemed in that moment to take measure of each other. She in her rich gown with the purse tied to her waist was calmly awaiting death. Philip, in his inflated leather garment which his attendants swore would keep him afloat in a rough sea, was afraid.

  She laughed in his face. “We are together now, Philip,” she cried. “You cannot leave me now.”

  Then she flung herself at his feet and embraced his knees. “I will cling to you,” she went on.

  “I will cling so closely that Death will not be able to separate us.”

  Philip did not answer; he remained still, looking down at her; and it seemed to some who watched them that he found comfort in her arms which were about him.

  She became tender and astonishingly calm, as though she realized that his fear made it necessary for her to be the strong one now.

  “Why, Philip,” she said, “whoever heard of a King's being drowned? There was never a King who was drowned.”

  Philip closed his eyes as though he could not bear to contemplate the signs of impending disaster. His hand touched the leather garment on which the words “The King, Don Philip” had been painted in huge letters. He who had been so vital had never thought of death. He was not yet thirty years of age, and life had given him so much. It was only Juana whose mind often led her into strange paths, only Juana, who had suffered deeply, who could look death in the face with a smile which was not without welcome.

  He heard her voice shouting amid the tumult: “I am hungry. Is it not time we ate? Bring me a box with something to eat.”

  One of the men went off to do her bidding while she remained smiling, her arms about her trembling husband's knees.

  THE FIRE WAS NOW under control, thanks to the almost superhuman efforts of the crew. The ship was listing badly, and with the coming of day it was seen that land was close at hand.

  Philip cried out in relief, shouting that they must make for dry land with all speed.

  Don Juan Manuel was at his side. “This is England,” he said. “If we land, we put ourselves in the hands of the Tudor.”

  “What else could we do?” demanded Philip. “Is the Tudor more to be feared than a grave in the ocean bed?”

  Don Juan admitted that until their ship was repaired they would have little hope of reaching Spain.

  Philip spread his hands. The sight of land had restored his good spirits, because in his youthful arrogance he believed himself capable of handling the Tudor King; and it was only death that terrified him.

  “We'll make for the shore with all speed,” he said.

  So at last into the shallow harbor of Melcombe Regis came the battered ship carrying Juana and Philip. The people all along the coast as far as Falmouth had seen that a fleet of ships was in distress, and they were unsure as to whether these ships belonged to friends or enemies.

  They gathered on the beaches, brandishing bows and arrows and their farming implements; and when Philip and Juana came into Melcombe Regis harbor they found a crowd of uncertain English men and women waiting for them.

  The ship's company had gathered on the deck, and for some moments the people ashore believed that the strangers had come to attack them, for their pleas for help were unintelligible.

  Then a young man, obviously of the gentry, pushed himself to the front of the crowd on the quay and shouted to the people on deck in French: “Who are you? And why do you come here?”

  The answer came: “We are carrying The Archduke and Duchess of Austria, King and Queen of Castile, who were on their way to Spain and have been wrecked on your shores.”

  That was enough. A stout, red-faced man came to stand beside the young man who had spoken in French.

  “Tell them,” he said, “that they must accept my hospitality. Let them come ashore and rest awhile in my house while I inform the King's Grace of their arrival.”

  Thus Philip and Juana landed in England, and while they were given a sample of lavish English hospitality in the manor house of Sir John Trenchard in Melcombe Regis, close by Weymouth, couriers rode to Court to inform the King of the arrival of the royal pair.

  HOW PLEASANT IT WAS to be on dry land, and how generous was the hospitality bestowed upon the party by Sir John Trenchard and his household.

  Juana and Philip were introduced to the comforts of an English manor house. Fires roared in enormous open fireplaces; great joints of meat turned on the kitchen spits and from the kitchens came the smell of baking.

  Philip was happy to relax, and so delighted to be on terra firma that, for a few days, he was kind to Juana, who was accordingly filled with bliss.

  News came that other ships of their fleet had found refuge along the coast as far west as Falmouth. Some were not damaged beyond repair and could in a short time put to sea again.

  This was comforting news, for when the storm had abated the weather was mild and the seas so calm that Don Juan Manuel was eager to continue with the journey.

  Sir John Trenchard was bluffly indignant when this was suggested.

  Nay, he declared. He'd not allow it. He would not be denied the honor of offering a little more entertainment to his distinguished guests. Why, his King would never forgive him if he let them go. It would seem churlish.

  Don Juan Manuel understood.

  “He is waiting for instructions from Henry,” he told Philip.
“I doubt that the King of England will allow you to go until there has been a meeting.”

  “I see no reason why there should not be a meeting,” retorted Philip. “Although if I wished to go, nothing would deter me.”

  “The King of England might. Who knows, there might be an army approaching now to detain you.”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “Because you are in his country, and here he is all-powerful. It would be easier if you stayed here awhile as a guest rather than as a prisoner.”

  “I should like to see my sister Catalina,” said Juana. “How strange that a little while ago she wanted to arrange a meeting. Now the storm may have done that for us.”

  Philip studied his wife. She was in one of her sane periods at this time. The ordeal at sea had calmed her while it had distressed others. None would guess now that the seed of madness lurked in her.

  “Then,” said Philip, “we must perforce enjoy English hospitality a little longer. And I have no fears of a meeting with the King of England. Indeed there is much I would like to discuss with him.”

  Juan Manuel lowered his eyes. There were times when he was afraid of and for his reckless master.

  Philip was aware of Juan Manuel's apprehension, and it amused him. He was going to make all his servants understand that he and he alone would make decisions as to policy. Seeing Juana quite normal now, Queen of Castile, Philip made up his mind that when he met Henry he would do so in his own right. He would meet him as the Archduke Philip, heir to Maximilian, not as the consort of the Queen of Castile, although of course it was Castile he wished to discuss with Henry. He was going to attempt to win Henry's support against Ferdinand; and as Juana, in her sudden return to sanity, might remember that Ferdinand was her father, it would be well for him to go on ahead of Juana to meet the King of England.

  NEWS FROM HENRY CAME quickly to Melcombe Regis. He would not allow his guests to leave England until they had talked together. He was delighted to have such august visitors, and he was sending an escort to bring them to Windsor, where he and the Prince of Wales would be waiting to receive them.

  Philip was delighted when he saw the magnificence of the cavalcade which had been sent to take him to Windsor, but Don Juan Manuel and his more sober advisers were apprehensive, They knew that it was useless to caution their headstrong master. To do so might make him more reckless than ever.

  Juana came to her husband as he stood by a window looking out on the brilliantly caparisoned horses which were waiting below.

  “And they say,” cried Philip, “that Henry is a mean man.”

  “He has certainly treated my sister with great meanness,” replied Juana.

  Philip looked pleased. The King of England was mean to the daughter of Ferdinand but eager to shower honors on the son of Maximilian.

  Then he remembered that part of this show was for another of Ferdinand's daughters, and that this was his wife, the Queen of Castile.

  “I look forward to the journey,” went on Juana. “It will be pleasant to see this country which is now Catalina's. And what joy to see her at the end of the journey! My poor Catalina, her letters were often sad.”

  “Juana,” said Philip, “I am most solicitous for your comfort.”

  A smile of happiness touched her lips and she gazed at him ardently. “Oh Philip,” she murmured, “you need have no fear for me. I only have to be with you to be happy.”

  He gently unlaced her clinging fingers which were on his arm.

  “I must travel with all speed to Windsor,” he said. “You shall follow at a slower pace.”

  “You mean…you will go without me!” Her voice was shrill.

  “I would not submit you to the hazards of rapid travel. You shall come slowly and with dignity.”

  “Why, why?” she screamed. “I have faced the dangers of the sea with you. What hazards would there be on the road? You shall not be rid of me. I know full well why you seek to escape me. There is that woman…”

  “Be silent,” he said sharply. “You weary me with your eternal jealousies.”

  “Then remove the cause of my jealousy.”

  “I should die of boredom, which I believe would be more tiresome than death by drowning.”

  “You are so cruel,” she complained pathetically.

  “You will do as I say,” he told her.

  “Why should I? Am I not the Queen? But for me, Castile would never be for you.”

  “So you boast once more of the titles you have brought me. Have I not paid dearly for them? Do I not have to endure you also?”

  “Philip, I shall come with you.”

  “You will do as I say. Do you want me to have you put away again?”

  “You cannot do it.”

  “Can I not? I did it before. Why should I not do it again? All know that you are mad. You make no secret of the fact. You shall say a wifely farewell to me and I will go on ahead of you. You will be calm and follow me. You will travel the same road, but some days after me. Is that such hardship?”

  “It is always hardship not to be with you.”

  He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched hard.

  He said: “If you do as I say, I will promise to be a loving husband to you this night.”

  “Philip …” She could not quench the longing in her voice.

  “Only if,” he went on, “you promise to say a nice, pleasant, calm farewell to me on the morrow.”

  “It is bribery,” she said. “It is not the first time. You give me as a concession that which is mine by right, and always you demand a price for it.”

  He laughed at her. He was so sure of his power over her. He would spend his last night at Melcombe Regis with her, and in the morning he would leave her behind while he rode on to Windsor to meet the King of England.

  WINDSOR LOOKED PLEASANT to Katharine that winter's day. She was pleased now that she had left Durham House and was at Court. It would be wonderful to see Juana again, to whisper confidences, to recall the old days and perhaps to explain the difficulties of her position here in England.

  With her maids of honor ranged about her she was at the window, waiting for the first signs of the cavalcade.

  “I wonder if I shall recognize her,” murmured Katharine. “She will have changed since I saw her, doubtless.”

  “It is long since she went to Flanders,” Maria de Salinas reminded her.

  Katharine thought of that day, nearly ten years ago, when Juana had set out for Flanders. She remembered the sadness of her mother who had accompanied Juana to Laredo, and how Isabella had returned to find that her own mother—so like Juana in her wildness—was dying in the Castle of Arevalo.

  It was all so long ago. What resemblance would Juana, Queen of Castile, bear to that high-spirited, wayward girl who had gone into Flanders to marry Philip the Handsome?

  She looked at her maids of honor, but their expressions were blank and she knew that they were thinking of the wild stories they had heard of her sister—how she had bound one of her husband's mistresses and cut off her long golden hair, how she had thought herself to be a prisoner at Medina del Campo and had escaped from her apartments and refused to return, spending the bitterly cold night out of doors in her night attire. Uneasy rumors of Juana's conduct continued to come from Flanders.

  When I see her, thought Katharine, she will talk to me of her life; I shall be able to comfort her as she will comfort me.

  So there she waited, and when the fanfares of trumpets heralded the arrival of the cavalcade, and the King and the Prince of Wales went down to the courtyard to receive the guests, Katharine saw the fair and handsome Philip, but she looked in vain for her sister.

  She stood at her window watching the greetings between the royal parties. Surely Juana must be there. She was in England with Philip. Why was she not with him now?

  Soon she herself would be expected to descend and greet the guests of the King; but she must wait until summoned; she must remember that there were many at the Cou
rt of greater importance than she was.

  She gazed at her brother-in-law. He was indeed a handsome man. How haughty he looked, determined to stand as the equal of the King of England; and as he greeted him, by very comparison Henry VII of England seemed more aged and infirm than usual.

  But there was the Prince of Wales—already taller than Philip himself— the golden Prince, even more arrogant than Philip, even more certain of his right to the center of the stage.

  Katharine could never look upon the Prince of Wales unmoved, and even at such a time as this she temporarily forgot Juana, because she must wonder whether or not that disturbing boy would eventually be her husband.

  She heard her maids of honor whispering together.

  “But how strange this is! What can have happened to the Queen of Castile?”

  THOSE WERE UNEASY DAYS at Windsor for Philip's followers—not so for Philip; he was determined to enjoy the lavish hospitality. It was a pleasure to show his skill at hunting and hawking in the forests of Windsor; he liked to ride through the straggling street which was the town of Windsor, and to see the women at their windows, or pausing in the street, as he passed, all with those looks and smiles which he was accustomed to receive from women everywhere. He liked to sit in the great dining hall on the King's right hand and sample the various English dishes, to listen to the minstrels, to watch the baiting of bears, horses and mastiffs.

  He did not know that the King of England only entertained on such a lavish scale when he hoped to profit from doing so.

  Glorious days these were, and Philip was in no hurry to leave for Spain. He had met his sister-in-law, poor little Katharine, who seemed to be somewhat ill-used by this wily old Tudor. The girl was dull, he thought; too melancholy, lacking in the gaiety which he liked to find in women. She was shabby compared with the other Court ladies; he had little interest in her.

  On the rare occasions when they met she persistently questioned him about Juana. Why was Juana not with him? Why did they not travel together?

  “Ah,” he had replied, “I came with all speed on the King's express desire. I did not wish to subject Juana to such a tiring journey.”