by Jean Plaidy
“Would she not have preferred to travel with you?”
“I have to be firm with her. I have to consider her health.”
Katharine did not trust him, and more than ever she longed to see her sister.
Meanwhile the King was making headway with Philip.
There was, sheltering in Burgundy under the protection of Maximilian, a cousin of that Earl of Warwick whom Henry had executed because of his claim to the throne; this cousin was Edmund de la Pole who called himself Duke of Suffolk; and, while such a man lived, Henry could not feel entirely secure. His great aim was to eliminate all those who laid claim to the throne and, with Edmund de la Pole skulking on the Continent, he could never be sure when the man might land in England and seek to take the Crown from him. He remembered his own days of exile and how he had lain in wait for the opportune moment to rise and snatch the throne for himself.
He was subtle in his dealing with Philip, and Philip had not learned subtlety. It was gratifying to the King of England that he had such an arrogant young man to deal with, for this made the way so much easier than if it had been necessary to bargain with Philip's wiser ministers.
He knew what Philip wanted from him: help against Ferdinand. Well, reasoned the King of England, that sly old fox Ferdinand was ever an enemy of mine.
Henry was finding Philip's visit stimulating, and he was enjoying it as much as his rheumatism would allow him to enjoy anything.
Henry was eager that there should be a commercial treaty with Flanders and this he obtained—making sure that it should be very advantageous to England.
It was not so easy to bring about the expulsion of Edmund de la Pole, but slyly and subtly Henry reminded Philip that he was held a prisoner in England—by the weather. But Philip knew that there was a veiled threat in the words; and even he did not see how they could leave England if Henry did not wish them to do so.
So de la Pole was thrown to the King, and Henry blessed that storm which had cast this incautious young man upon his shores.
“This is indeed a happy day,” he cried. “See, we have come to two agreements already. We have a commercial treaty between our two countries, and you have agreed to give me the traitor, de la Pole. It was a happy day when you came to visit us.”
Happy for England, thought Juan Manuel; and he was already wondering how soon the fleet of ships, which were now assembling at Weymouth, could be ready to put to sea. He hoped it would be before the rash Philip had made more concessions to his wily host.
“Let us make even happier arrangements,” went on the King of England. “It is the maxim of your House that it is better to wed than to war. If you will give me your sister Margaret I shall be a happy man.”
“There is none to whom I would rather give her,” answered Philip.
“And the Emperor?”
“My father and I are of one mind in this matter.”
“A speedy marriage would please me greatly.”
“A speedy marriage there shall be,” answered Philip. He did not mention that his sister had loudly protested against a match with the old King of England and that, since she had been twice married and twice widowed and was now Duchess of Savoy, she could not be forced against her will into a marriage which was unattractive to her.
But Philip would say nothing of this. How could he, to a man who might be his host but was also to some extent his jailer?
To discuss the marriage of the King's daughter Mary to Charles was a pleasant enough occupation. That marriage, if it ever took place, would occur far in the future when Philip would be miles away from England. The Prince of Wales' marriage to Philip's daughter Eleanor would not, if it ever came about, be so far distant. It was very pleasant to discuss it, although Henry was on dangerous ground, thought Philip, when he talked of marrying to Juana's daughter a son who had already been promised to her sister.
Well, Juana had no say in these matters.
KATHARINE IN HER apartments in the Castle was being prepared by her ladies for the entertainment in the great hall.
They were sighing, all of them, because they had no new gowns, and even the one Katharine must wear had been mended.
“How shall we look?” wailed Francesca. “The Archduke will be ashamed of us.”
“Perhaps he will be sorry for us,” put in Maria de Salinas.
“I do not think he would ever be sorry for anyone,” Maria de Rojas countered.
Katharine listened to their chatter. Poor Juana, she thought. How strange that you are not here with us!
She watched them putting the jewels in her hair.
“This brooch will cover the thin part of the bodice,” said Maria de Salinas.
It was incongruous to have a great ruby covering a threadbare bodice. But then, thought Katharine, my whole life has been incongruous since I came to England.
“I wonder if the Prince of Wales will dance,” said Francesca, “and with whom.”
Katharine felt their eyes upon her and she tried not to show her embarrassment; the strangest part of all was not to know whether she was seriously affianced to the Prince of Wales. He would soon be fifteen and it was on his fifteenth birthday that they were to have been married.
If that day comes and goes, and I am still a widow, Katharine pondered, I shall know that Henry is not intended for me.
The Princess Mary came into the apartment, carrying her lute, at which she had become very skilful.
“I hope,” she said, “that I shall be able to play to the company tonight.”
How eagerly they sought the attention of the crowd, these Tudors, mused Katharine.
Mary was a beautiful girl, now about ten years old, wilful, wayward but so fascinating that even the King's face softened when he looked at her; and, when he was irritable with her, all knew that his rheumatism must be particularly painful.
“They will surely ask you to do so,” Katharine assured her.
“I hope I may play while Henry dances. I should like that.”
“Doubtless you will if you ask that you may.”
“I shall ask,” said Mary. “Did you know that we are to return to Richmond on the eleventh?”
“Indeed no. I had not heard.”
“You are to return with me. It is my father's order.”
Katharine felt numb with disappointment. Each day she had waited for the arrival of Juana. It was now the eighth of the month, and if she left on the eleventh she had only three more days in which to wait for her sister—and even if she came now they would have only a short time together.
She said nothing. It was no use protesting. At least she had learned the folly of that.
Oh, let her come soon, she prayed. Then she began to wonder why Juana was not with them and what mystery this was surrounding her sister who was Queen of Castile and yet was lacking in authority. Why, Juana had taken the place of their mother, and none would have dared dictate to Isabella what she must do—not even Ferdinand.
In the great hall that day there was feasting, and Katharine danced the Spanish dances with some of her women. The women enjoyed it; and Francesca in particular was very gay. After this, thought Katharine, they will long more than ever to return to Spain.
Mary played the lute while her father watched her fondly, and Prince Henry danced vigorously to loud applause. When he returned to his seat his eyes were on Katharine. Was she applauding as loudly as the rest?
He seemed satisfied; and Katharine noticed throughout the evening that his eyes were often fixed upon her, brooding, speculating.
She wondered what he was thinking; but she soon forgot to wonder. Her thoughts continually strayed to Juana and she was asking herself: What is this mystery in my sister's life? Is she deliberately being kept from me?
ON THE TENTH of February, one day before that on which, at the King's command, Katharine was due to leave with the Princess Mary, Juana arrived at Windsor.
She was carried into the castle in her litter, and Katharine was among those who waited to receive her.
&
nbsp; Katharine looked in dismay at the woman her sister had become. Could that be young Juana, the gay—too gay—girl who had left Spain to marry this man who now obsessed her? Her hair was lustreless, her great eyes were melancholy; it seemed that all that vitality which had been so much a part of her had disappeared.
She was received with ceremony. First the King took her hand and kissed it; then the Prince of Wales bowed low in greeting.
“We have missed you at our revels,” said Henry.
Juana could not understand, but she smiled graciously.
Then Katharine was face to face with her sister. She knelt before her not forgetting, even at such a moment, that she was in the presence of the Queen of Castile.
Then the sisters looked into each other's faces and both were astonished at what they saw. Juana's little sister had become a tragic woman, no less than she had herself.
“Juana… oh, how happy I am to see you at last!” whispered Katharine.
“My sister! Why, you are no longer a child.”
“I am a widow now, Juana.”
“My poor, sweet sister!”
That was all. There were others to be greeted; there were the formalities to be considered; but even while these were in progress Katharine noticed how hungrily her sister's eyes followed the debonair figure of her husband, and she thought: What torture it must be to love a man as Juana loves him!
How brief was the time they could spend together. Had it been arranged, Katharine wondered, that her sister should arrive the day before she was to leave for Richmond, so that they might have a glimpse of each other and nothing more?
Yet at last when they were alone together Katharine was conscious of the rapid passing of time. She wanted to hold it back. There was so much to say, so many questions to ask that she, in fear of not having time to say half, was temporarily unable to think of any of them.
Juana was not helpful; she sat silent as though she were far away from the Castle at Windsor.
“Juana,” cried Katharine desperately, “you are unhappy. Why, my sister? Your husband is in good health and you love him dearly. You are Queen of Castile. Are you unhappy, Juana, because you can only be Queen of Castile since our mother is no more?”
“He loves me,” said Juana in a low melancholy voice, “because I am Queen of Castile.” Then she laughed, and Katharine was filled with uneasiness by the sound of that laughter. “If I were not Queen of Castile he would throw me out into the streets to beg my bread tomorrow.”
“Oh, Juana, surely he is not such a monster.”
She smiled. “Oh yes, he is a monster… the handsomest, finest monster that the world ever knew.”
“You love him dearly, Juana.”
“He is my life. Without him I should be dead. There is nothing in the world for me…except him.”
“Juana, our mother would not have you say such things, or think such thoughts. You are the Queen even as she was. She would expect you to love Castile, to work for Castile, as she did. She loved us dearly; she loved our father; but Castile came first.”
“So it would be with Philip. He will love Castile.”
“He is not master in Castile. Even our father was not that. You know how our mother always ruled, never forgetting for one moment that she was the Queen.”
“It is the women,” sighed Juana. “How I hate women. And in particular golden-haired women…big-breasted, big-hipped. That is the Flanders women, Catalina. How I loathe them! I could tear them all apart. I would throw them to the soldiers… the lowest of the soldiers… and say: They are the true enemies of the Queen of Castile.”
“Our father was not always faithful to our mother. It grieved her, I know. But she did not let it interfere with the affection she bore him.”
“Our mother! What did she know of love?”
“She knew much of love. Do you not remember her care for us? I verily believe that, when we left her, she suffered even more than we did.”
“Love!” cried Juana. “What do you know of love? I mean love like this which I have for him. There is nothing like it, I tell you.” Juana had stood up; she began beating her hands against her stiffly embroidered bodice. “You cannot understand, Catalina. You have never known it. You have never known Philip.”
“But why are you so unhappy?”
“Do you not know? I thought the whole world knew. Because of those others. They are always there. How many women have shared his bed since he came to England? Do you know? Of course you do not. Even he will have forgotten.”
“Juana, you distress yourself.”
“I am in continual distress…except when he is with me. He says he does his duty. I am often pregnant. I am happiest when I am not, because he always remembers that I should become so.”
Katharine covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Juana, please do not talk so.”
“How else should I talk? He went on in advance of me. Can you guess why? Because there were women with whom he wished to amuse himself. I tell you, I hate women…I hate… hate… hate women.”
Juana had begun to rock herself to and fro, and Katharine was afraid her shouts would be heard in those apartments of the Castle near her own.
She tried to soothe her sister; she put her arms about her, and Juana immediately clung to her, rocking Katharine with her.
“Why, Juana,” whispered Katharine, “you are distraught. Would you like to lie on your bed? I would sit beside it and talk to you.”
Juana was silent for a while, and then she cried out: “Yes. Let it be so.”
Katharine took her sister's arm and together they went to Juana's bedchamber. Some of her attendants were waiting there, and Katharine knew from their expression that they were prepared for anything to happen.
“The Queen wishes to rest,” said Katharine. “You may go. I will look after her.”
The women retired, leaving the sisters together, and Katharine realized that Juana's mood had changed once more. Now she had sunk into melancholy silence.
“Come,” said Katharine, “lie down. Your journey must have been very tiring.”
Still Juana did not answer but allowed herself to be led to the bed and covered with the embroidered coverlet.
Katharine sat by the bed and reached out for the white ringed hand. She held it, but there was no response to her tenderness from the hand which lay listlessly in hers.
“There is so much we have to say to each other,” said Katharine. “You shall tell me your troubles and I shall tell you mine. Oh, Juana, now that I have seen you I know how wretched I have been in England. Imagine my position here. I am unwanted. When our mother was alive I longed to return to Spain. Now that she is gone I do not know what I want. I do not understand the King of England. His plans change abruptly, and a marriage is planned one day and forgotten the next. You must see how poor I have become. Look at this dress.…”
She stood up and spread her skirt, but Juana was not even looking at her.
She went on: “I suppose my only hope is marriage with the Prince of Wales. If that should take place, at least I should be accorded the dignity due to my rank. But will it ever take place? He is much younger than I and they say he is to marry Marguerite of Angoulême, but the King has arranged something other with your husband.”
At the mention of Philip a faint smile touched Juana's lips.
“They say he is the handsomest man in the world, and they do not lie.”
“He is indeed handsome, but it would have been better if he had been kind,” said Katharine quickly. “While you are here, Juana, cannot you do something to alleviate my poverty? If you would speak to King Henry…”
The door opened and Philip himself came into the room. He was laughing and his fair face was slightly flushed.
“Where is my wife?” he cried. “Where is my Queen?”
Katharine was surprised at the change which came over Juana. She had leaped from the bed, all melancholy gone.
“Here I am, Philip. Here I am.”
Wi
thout ceremony she flung herself into his arms. It nauseated Katharine to see her sister clinging to this man, who stood, his arms limp at his sides, while he looked over Juana's head at Katharine.
“I see,” said Philip, “that you have an august visitor.”
“It is Catalina… only my little sister.”
“But I disturb you. And it is so long since you have met. I must leave you together.”
“Philip, oh Philip…do not go. It is so long since we have been alone together. Philip, stay now …”
Katharine stood up. She could bear no more.
“Pray give me leave to retire,” she said to her sister.
But Juana was not looking at her; she was breathless with desire and completely unaware of her sister's presence.
Philip smiled at her sardonically; and she saw that he was not displeased. Was he showing her how abject the Queen of Castile could become in her need for the comfort only he could give? Was he telling her that the present King of Castile would be very different from the previous one? Ferdinand had been a strong man, but his wife had been stronger. Juana would never be another Isabella of Castile.
Katharine went swiftly to her own apartments. What will become of her? she asked herself. What will become of us all?
So this was the meeting for which she had longed. There would be no time for more meetings, because she was to leave Windsor for Richmond tomorrow. There were no concessions for Katharine from the King of England, any more than there were for Juana, Queen of Castile, from her cruel careless husband, Philip the Handsome.
She did not even listen to what I was telling her, thought Katharine. She completely forgot my existence, the moment he entered the room.
THERE WAS LITTLE TO DO, with the Court at Richmond, but sit and embroider with her maids of honor and listen to their laments for Spain. The Princess Mary was with her often. She would sit at Katharine's feet playing her lute, listening to her comments and being instructed by them, for Katharine herself excelled with the lute. Sometimes they sang together the old songs of Spain, but more often the songs of England. “For,” complained Mary, “your songs are sad songs.”
“They sound sad,” Katharine told her, “because I sing them in a strange land.”
