by Jean Plaidy
Katharine was desperate, realizing that when she needed as much support as she could get, her affairs were continually being obstructed by strife within her own circle.
One day Fernandez came to her in a state of great indignation. He had had a narrow escape, he told her. Fuensalida had made an attempt to have him arrested and shipped out of the country.
Katharine was angry, but there was nothing she could do. Puebla was confined to his bed and clearly was dying; now she reproached herself for not appreciating that little man before. It was only now that she could compare him with Fuensalida that she realized how admirable he had been. She could not ask her father to recall Fuensalida and send her another ambassador. The situation was too involved and, by the time a new man arrived, who could say what might have happened?
So she prayed constantly that her ill luck would change and that soon her affairs might be put in order.
WHAT JOY IT WAS to escape to the house of the Genoese banker! thought Francesca. How merry that man was, and how delighted that Francesca de Carceres should deign to visit him. It was true, of course, that she was of a most noble family and he was merely a banker; but how much more extravagantly he lived, and what great comfort he enjoyed!
She could not recall how many times she had been to his house, ostensibly to visit the ambassador, and how she arranged her visits to fall at those times when she knew Fuensalida would not be present.
She had meant to implore him to do something for Katharine's maids of honor, who should have marriages arranged for them, but she had found no opportunity of speaking of this matter to the ambassador.
There was so much of interest to see in the house, and her banker delighted in showing her. She had only to admire something, and he implored her to accept it. He was surely the most generous man in the world!
So it was fun to slip on her cloak and hasten to his lodgings.
On this occasion he was waiting for her, and he seemed more serious; as it was unusual to see him serious, she wondered what had happened.
They took wine together with some of those excellent cakes which his cooks made especially for her, and as they sat together he said suddenly: “How strange that I should be Francesco, and you Francesca. It seems yet another link between us.”
“Yes,” she smiled, “it is certainly strange.”
Then he became even more serious and said: “How long can this continue?”
“You mean my visits? Oh, until the Court moves, or until I am discovered and forbidden to come.”
“That would stop you…if you were forbidden?”
“I might be tempted to disobey.”
He leaned towards her and took one of her hands. “Francesca,” he said, “would you consider becoming mistress of this house?”
She grew a little pale, realizing the enormity of what he was suggesting. She…marry him! But her marriage was one which would have to be approved by the Infanta, by the Queen of Castile or by Ferdinand, and by the King of England. Did he not understand that she was not a little seamstress or some such creature to make a match on the spur of the moment?
“The suggestion is repulsive to you?” he said wistfully.
“No…no!” She was emphatic. She was thinking of how dull her life had been before these visits; and how it would seem even more dull if she were forced to give them up. She went on: “Marriages are arranged for people in my position. I should never be allowed to marry you.”
“You have been neglected,” he argued. “To whom do you owe loyalty? As for myself, I am no subject of the King of England. If I wish to marry, I marry. If you decided you did not want to go back to the palace one day, I would have a priest here who should marry us. I would place all my possessions and myself at your service. I love you, Francesca. You are young, you are beautiful, you are of noble birth, but you are a prisoner; and the only one of these attributes which can remain to you is your noble birth. Francesca, do not allow them to bury you alive. Marry me. Have we not been happy together? I will make you happy for the rest of your life.”
Francesca rose. She was trembling.
She must go quickly. She must be alone to think. She was terrified that she would commit some indiscretion which would decide the whole of her future life.
“You are afraid now,” he said gently. “Make no mistake. It is not of me, Francesca, that you should be afraid. You would never be afraid of me. You are bold and adventurous. Not for you the palace prison. Come to me, Francesca, and I will make you free.”
“I must go,” she said.
He did not attempt to detain her.
“You will think of what I have said?” he asked.
“I cannot stop thinking of it,” she answered. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead tenderly. She knew that she was going to feel cheated if she did not see him again. Yet how could she?
Juana at Tordesillas
JUANA IN THE TOWN OF ARCOS KNEW NOTHING OF THE negotiations which had been going on to marry her to the King of England. She had settled in this most unhealthy climate, but she was quite unaware of the cold winds which penetrated the palace. Her little Catalina had become a lively little girl who seemed readily to accept the strangeness of her mother. Juana had also insisted that her son Ferdinand should be brought to live with her, and this wish had been granted. But little Ferdinand, who was nearly six years old, did not take kindly to his mother's household. He did not like the coffin which was always prominently displayed; nor did he care to look on his dead father and to see his mother fondling the corpse.
Juana went about the palace dressed in rags, and she did not sit at table but ate her food from a plate on the floor like a cat or a dog. She never washed herself, and there were no women-servants in the house except the old washerwoman.
Music could sometimes be heard being played in the Queen's apartment; otherwise there was almost continuous silence.
Young Ferdinand was very happy when his grandfather came to Arcos and took him away, although his mother screamed and shouted and had to be held by attendants while he rode away with his grandfather. Ferdinand loved his grandfather, who made much of him.
“We are both Ferdinands,” said the elder Ferdinand, and that delighted the boy, who decided that he would be exactly like his grandfather when he grew up.
Juana might have gone on in this state at Arcos but for the fact that revolt broke out in Andalusia, and it immediately occurred to Ferdinand that the rebels might plan to use her as a figurehead. He decided then that he was going to remove her to the isolated castle of Tordesillas, where it would be so much easier to keep her under restraint.
He came to the Palace of Arcos one day and went straight to those apartments where Juana was sitting, staring moodily at the coffin of her husband. Her hair, which had not been dressed for many months, hung about her haggard face; her face and hands were dirty, and her clothes hung in filthy rags about her gaunt figure.
Ferdinand looked at her in horror. There was indeed no need to pretend that she was mad.
Undoubtedly she must be removed to Tordesillas. He knew that there was a plot afoot to displace him and set up young Charles as King. As Charles was now nine, this arrangement would give certain ambitious men the power they needed; but Ferdinand was determined that the Regency should remain in his hands, and he would be uneasy until Juana was his prisoner in some place where he could keep her well guarded.
“My daughter,” he said as he approached her—he could not bring himself to touch her. As well touch a beggar or gipsy; they would probably be more wholesome—“I am anxious on your account.”
She did not look at him.
“Last time I was here,” he went on, “I did not please you. But you must realize that it is necessary for the people to see little Ferdinand; and what I did was for the best.”
Still she did not answer. It was true then that, although she had raged when he had taken her son, a few days later she had completely forgotten the boy. There was no real place i
n that deranged mind for anyone but the dead man in the coffin.
Ferdinand went on: “This place is most unhealthy. You cannot continue to live here in this…squalor. I must insist that you leave here. The castle of Tordesillas has been made ready to receive you. It is worthy of you. The climate is good. There you will recover your health.”
She came to life suddenly. “I shall not go. I shall stay here. You cannot make me go. I am the Queen.”
He answered quietly: “This place is surrounded by my soldiers. If you do not go of your own free will, I shall be obliged to force you to go. You must prepare to leave at once.”
“So you are making me a prisoner!” she said.
“The soldiers are here to guard you. All that is done is for your good.”
“You are trying to take him away from me,” she screamed.
“Take the coffin with you. There is no reason why you should not continue to mourn in Tordesillas, as you do in Arcos.”
She was silent for a while. Then she said: “I need time to prepare myself.”
“A day,” he said. “You can wash yourself, have your hair dressed, change into suitable clothes in a day.”
“I never travel by day.”
“Then travel by night.”
She sat still, nodding.
And the next night she left Arcos. She had been washed; her wild hair had been set into some order; she wore a gown suited to her rank; and, taking little Catalina in her litter, she set out with her followers; as usual, beside the Queen's litter, so that it was never out of her sight, went the hearse drawn by four horses.
Through the nights she travelled and, as the third day was beginning to break, the party arrived at the old bridge across the Douro. There Juana paused to look at the castle which was so like a fortress. Immediately opposite this castle was the convent of Santa Clara, and in the cloisters of this convent she allowed the coffin to be placed. Then from the windows of her apartments she could look across to the coffin, and she spent the greater part of her days at her window watching over her dead. Each night she left the castle for the convent, where she embraced the corpse of Philip the Handsome.
So dragged on the long years of mourning, and each day she grew a little more strange, a little more remote from the world; only in one thing was she constant—her love for the handsome philanderer who had played such a large part in making her what she was.
King Henry VIII
KATHARINE HAD NOW LOST ALL HOPE. HER AFFAIRS WERE IN the direst disorder. Fuensalida had quarrelled openly with Henry, and when the ambassador had gone to Court he had been told that the King had no wish to see him.
Fuensalida, haughty, arrogant and tactless, had even tried to force an entry, with the result that he had suffered the extreme indignity of being seized by guards and put outside the Palace precincts.
Never had an ambassador been submitted to such shame, which clearly indicated that Henry had no respect for Ferdinand's suggestions. Indeed Henry was boasting that he would marry Mary and Charles without the help of Spain.
Katharine was with her maids of honor when the news was brought to her of Puebla's death. This, she had at last come to realize, was one of the greatest blows which could befall her, for now there was no one to work for her in England but the incompetent Fuensalida.
“This is the last blow,” she said. “I fear now that there is no hope.”
“But what will become of us?” asked Maria de Salinas.
“Doubtless we shall be sent back to Spain,” put in Maria de Rojas hopefully.
Katharine said nothing. She realized that to be sent back to Spain was the last thing she wanted. She would go back, humiliated, the unwanted Infanta, the widow who was yet a virgin. Had ever any Princess of Spain been so unfortunate as she was? There was only one dignified course left to her, and that was marriage with the Prince of Wales.
That was hopeless, for the King had shown so clearly that he would not allow the marriage to take place. Whenever she saw the Prince he had kindly smiles for her, which was comforting, for his importance grew daily, one might say hourly.
Katharine noticed that Francesca was not with them.
“Where is Francesca?” she asked.
“I have not seen her, Highness,” answered Maria de Salinas.
“Now that I recall it,” pursued Katharine, “she seems to absent herself often. What does she do when she is not with us?”
No one could answer that; which was strange because Francesca had been inclined to talk a great deal—often it seemed too much—of her personal affairs.
“I shall ask her when she returns,” said Katharine; and then they fell to discussing what would happen when Ferdinand learned that his ambassador had been refused admittance to the Palace.
Nothing would happen, thought Katharine wretchedly. Looking back over the years since Arthur's death, she saw that her position had changed but little. She could go on living in penury and uncertainty for the rest of her days.
“HIGHNESS!” It was Maria de Rojas, and her voice was trembling with excitement.
Katharine had left her maids of honor an hour before because she wished to be alone; she had felt she could no longer endure their chatter, which alternated between the desire to raise her hopes by improbable changes of fortune and sighing for their native land.
She looked at Maria quickly, eager to know what had happened to change her mood.
“This has been delivered at the Palace. It is for you.”
Katharine took the letter which Maria was holding out to her. “It is in Francesca's handwriting,” said Maria.
“Francesca!”
Katharine's heart began to beat fast as she opened the letter, and she hastily scanned the words without taking them in the first time. Then she read it again. It was brief and to the point.
Francesca would never return. She had married Francesco Grimaldi, the banker from Genoa.
“It is… impossible!” breathed Katharine.
Maria was at her side; forgetting all ceremony, all discipline as she looked over Katharine's shoulder and read the words which the newly married bride had written.
“Francesca… married! And to a banker! Oh, how could she? How could she! A banker! What will her family say? Highness, what will you do?”
“It must be some joke,” murmured Katharine.
But they both knew that it was no joke; Maria's horror changed momentarily to envy. “At least she married,” she whispered; her lips quivered and there came to her eyes the frantic look of a prisoner who has heard of another's escape, but sees no way out for herself.
“So this is where she has been,” went on Katharine. “It is the man with whom Fuensalida had his lodgings. How could she, a Carceres, so far forget the honor due to her rank as to marry a banker!”
Maria was speaking as though to herself: “Perhaps she fell in love with him. But it is more likely to be because he is very rich and we have been so poor. Francesca did not have an offer all the time we were here… perhaps she thought she never would have one.”
Katharine remembered her dignity. “Leave me now,” she said. “If she has left us we should make no effort to bring her back. She has chosen the way she wishes to go.”
“Your Highness will allow this?”
Katharine smiled bitterly. “You do not blame her, Maria. I can remember, when I came to England, how eager you all were to come with me. It seemed such a glorious future, did it not? But how differently it turned out! Francesca has escaped… that is all. As you would escape, Maria, if the opportunity offered itself. Go now. Break this news to the others. I'll warrant they will share your envy of Francesca.”
Maria left her mistress and Katharine reread the letter. Francesca was happy, she said. She had married the man of her choice. There was excitement in every line. Francesca had escaped.
It seemed to Katharine in that moment that she touched the depth of hopelessness. Gay Francesca had risked the displeasure of kings and a powerful noble family to esc
ape from the dreary existence which she had been forced to share with the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella.
IT WAS THE month of April. The birch and willow were in flower; the stitchwort threw a silvery sheen on the green hedges; and the meadows were bright with deep yellow cowslips.
In the Palace of Richmond, Henry VII lay dying, and in the streets the people rejoiced furtively. The old reign was passing and the new one would soon begin. People forgot that their King had brought peace to England. To most he had seemed unkingly because he hated war—not because of the misery it brought, it was true, but because of the waste of good money and lives which could be used to make the country prosperous. He had never spent lavishly on pageants for the people's pleasure, and there had only been rich ceremonies when there had been the need to impress other rulers with England's powers.
To the people he was a miserly King, insignificant in appearance; he had imposed cruel taxes on his subjects; he had shown little affection even to his family. They forgot that from 1485, when he had come to the throne, to this year of 1509 the country had lived in peace, and in place of a bankrupt state he had built up a rich treasury. They did not tell themselves that this was the first King who had lived within his income, who had laid the foundations on which could be built a major Power. They said: “The old miser is dying. Old Henry is passing; this is the day of young Henry.” And when they thought of their laughing, golden Prince, they said: “Now England will be merry.”
The excitement throughout the Court was growing to a feverish pitch. Courtiers gathered in little groups waiting for the cry of “The King is dead.”
That young Henry should marry almost immediately was a matter on which all seemed to agree. Such a Prince needed a Queen. Who should it be?
There were many who favored alliance with France. Let it be Marguerite of Angoulême, they said. There were others who believed that alliance with the Hapsburgs would be more advantageous. Let it be Eleanor, the daughter of Juana and Philip. Was Eleanor too young for their golden Prince? Well then, Duke Albert of Bavaria had a daughter. Maximilian would be delighted to sponsor such a match.
