by Jean Plaidy
“It would not please my parents if they knew of this discord between their two ambassadors.”
“Highness, they know of it. I should be neglectful of my duty if I did not inform them. And inform them I have.”
Katharine looked with faint dislike at Puebla. Not only did he lack the charming manners of Ayala but she found him pompous, and she thought that his petty meanness, which was noticed by many of those who travelled with them, was humiliating for Spain.
“I used the fellow in Scotland,” went on Puebla. “He was useful there in cementing English and Scottish relations which, Highness, was the desire of your noble father. War between England and Scotland would have been an embarrassment to him at this time, and James IV was harboring the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, and seemed likely to support him.”
“Warbeck has now paid the price of presumption,” said Katharine. “Your Highness most wisely has become informed of English politics, I see.”
“Her Highness, my mother, insisted that I should know something of the country to which I was going.”
Puebla shook his head. “There are bound to be such impostors when two young Princes disappear. So we had our Perkin Warbeck claiming to be Richard, Duke of York.”
“How very sad for the Queen of England,” said Katharine. “Does she still mourn for her two brothers who disappeared so mysteriously in the Tower of London?”
“The Queen is not one to show her feelings. She has children of her own, a good husband and a crown. The last certainly could not be hers had her brothers lived.”
“Still she must mourn,” said Katharine; and she thought of her own brother, Juan, who had died, young and beautiful, a few months after his wedding. She believed she would never forget Juan and the shock and tragedy of his death.
“Well, quite rightly Warbeck has been hanged at Tyburn,” went on Puebla, “and that little matter has been settled. That would be satisfactory if it did not mean that Ayala has left the Scottish Court for that of England. London suits him better than Edinburgh. He is a soft liver. He did not like the northern climate nor the rough Scottish castles. So…we have him with us.”
Ayala rode up beside them.
His smile was mischievous. “Dr. de Puebla,” he said, “I do declare your doublet is torn. Is that the way to appear in the presence of our Infanta! Oh, he’s a close-fisted fellow, Highness. If you would know why, look at the shape of his nose.”
Katharine was horrified at the gibe and did not look at Ayala.
“Highness,” cried Puebla, “I would ask you to consider this: Don Pedro de Ayala may have the nose of a Castilian but the bags under his eyes are a revelation of the life he leads. One is born with one’s nose; that is not a result of dissipation, evil living.…”
Ayala brought his horse closer to Katharine’s. “Let us heed him not, Highness,” he murmured. “He is a low fellow; I have heard that he follows the trade of usurer in London. But what can one expect of a Jew?”
Katharine touched her horse’s flanks and rode forward to join Lord Willoughby de Broke.
She was alarmed. These two men, who could not control their hatred of each other, were the two whom her parents had selected to be her guides and counsellors during her first months in this strange land.
YET AS THE JOURNEY progressed she was attracted by the gaiety of Ayala.
She had discovered that he was amusing and witty, that he was ready to answer all her questions about the customs of the country and, what was more interesting, to give her little snippets of gossip about the family to which she would soon belong.
For much of the journey Katharine travelled in a horse litter, although occasionally she rode on a mule or a palfrey. October in the West country was by no means cold, but there was a dampness in the air and often Katharine would see the sun only as a red ball through the mist. Occasionally there were rain showers, but they were generally brief and then the sun would break through the clouds and Katharine would enjoy its gentle warmth. In the villages through which they passed the people came out to see them, and they were entertained in the houses of the local squires.
Here there was food in plenty; Katharine discovered that her new countrymen set great store by eating; in the great fireplaces enormous fires blazed; even the servants in the houses crowded round to see her—plump, rosy-cheeked young men and women, who shouted to each other and seemed to laugh a good deal. These people were as different from the Spaniards as a people could be. They appeared to have little dignity and little respect for the dignity of others. They were a vigorous people; and, having taken Katharine to their hearts, they did not hesitate to let her know this.
But for the ordeal she knew to be awaiting her at the end of the journey, she would have enjoyed her progress through this land of mists and pale sunshine and rosy-cheeked, exuberant people.
Ayala often rode beside her litter and she would ask him questions which he would be only too ready to answer. She had turned from the pompous Puebla in his musty clothes to the gay cleric, and Ayala was determined to exploit the situation to the full.
He made her feel that there was a conspiracy between them, which to some extent there was. For she knew that, when he rattled on in the Castilian tongue, none of those who were near could understand what was said.
His talk was gay and scandalous, but Katharine felt it was what she needed, and she looked forward to these conversations.
“You must be wary of the King,” he told her. “Have no fear of Arthur. Arthur is as mild as milk. You will be able to mold that one to your way…have no fear of that. Now, had it been Henry, that might have been another matter. But, praise be to the saints, Henry is the second son and it is Arthur for Your Highness.”
“Tell me about Arthur.”
Ayala lifted his shoulders. “Imagine a young boy, a little nervous, pink and white and golden-haired. He is half a head shorter than you are. He will be your slave.”
“Is it true that he does not enjoy good health?”
“It is. But he will grow out of that. And he seems the weaker because he is compared with robust young Henry.”
Katharine was relieved; she was delighted with the idea of a gentle young husband. She had already begun to think of him as her brother Juan, who had been as fair as an angel and gentle in his manner.
“You said I must beware of the King.”
“The King is quiet and ruthless. If he does not like you he will have no compunction in sending you back to Spain.”
“That would not greatly distress me.”
“It would distress your royal parents. And think of the disgrace to Your Highness and the House of Spain.”
“Is the King very formidable?”
“He will be gracious to you but he will never cease to watch. Do not be deceived by his mild manners. He fears all the time that some claimant to the throne will appear, and that there will be supporters to say such a claimant has a greater right. It is not always comfortable to wear the crown.”
Katharine nodded; she thought of the strife which had marred the earlier years of her parents’ life together, when Isabella had been engaged in the bitter War of the Succession.
“There is a mystery surrounding the death of the Queen’s two young brothers, the elder of whom was King Edward V and the younger the Duke of York. Many say they were murdered in the Tower of London by their wicked uncle, the crook-backed Richard, but their bodies were never discovered and there are many rumors concerning those deaths of which it would be unwise even to think, Highness.”
Katharine shivered. “Poor children,” she murmured.
“They are now past all earthly pain, and there is a wise King sitting on the throne of England. He married the Princes’ sister, and so joined the two warring factions. It might be wise not to dwell on the past, Highness. There have been two pretenders to the throne: Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel. Simnel, who pretended he was Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick and nephew of Richard III, is now serving as a scullion in the King�
��s household. He was obviously an impostor; therefore the King sent him to the kitchens—a sign of the King’s contempt—but Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn. This King is fond of showing examples to his people, because he lives in perpetual terror that someone will try to overthrow him.”
“I hope I shall find favor in his sight.”
“Your dowry has already found favor with him, Highness. As for yourself, you will please him too.”
“And the Queen?”
“Have no fear of the Queen. She will receive you kindly. She has no influence with the King, who is eager to show her that he owes no part of the throne to her. He is a man who takes counsel of none, but if he could be said to be under the influence of any, that one is his mother. You must please Margaret Beaufort Countess of Richmond if you will please the King—and all you need do is to provide the royal house with heirs, and all will go merrily.”
“I pray that God will make me fruitful. That, it seems, is the prayer of all Princes.”
“If there is aught else Your Highness wishes to know at any time, I pray you ask of me and ignore the Jew.”
Katharine bowed her head. And so the journey progressed.
THE KING SET OUT from Richmond Palace. He had become impatient. He was all eagerness to see the Spanish Infanta who had taken so long in reaching his country.
Arthur had been on pilgrimage to Wales—as Prince of Wales he was warmly greeted there and the King wished his son to show himself now and then in the Principality. Arthur had received word from his father that he was to come with all speed to East Hampstead, where he would greet his bride.
Henry disliked journeys, for he was not a man of action and they seemed to him an unnecessary expense.
“But on the occasion of my son’s wedding,” he grumbled to Empson, “I daresay we are expected to lay out a little.”
“That is so, Sire,” was the answer.
“Let us hope that we shall have the revenues to meet this occasion,” sighed the King; and Empson decided that he would raise certain fines to meet the extra expense.
Henry smiled wryly, but he was in fact delighted because his son was acquiring one of the richest Princesses in Europe. It was a good thing that this little island should be allied to the greatest power in the world, and what better tie could there be than through marriage?
Heirs were what were needed and, once this girl provided them, all well and good. But he was a little anxious about her. Her brother, the heir of Spain, had died shortly after his marriage. Exhausted by being a husband, it was said in some quarters. He hoped Katharine was of stronger health. And if she were…what of his own Arthur? Arthur’s cough and spitting of blood denoted weakness. They would have to take great care of Arthur, and he was not yet fifteen. Was it too young to tax his strength with a bride?
He had not consulted his physicians; he consulted no one; he and he alone would decide whether the marriage should be consummated immediately, or whether the royal couple should wait for a few months, or perhaps a year.
Young people, he mused, might indulge unwisely in the act of love. They might have no restraint. Not that he believed this would be the case with Arthur. Had it been Henry, it would have been another matter; but then there would have been no cause for anxiety on that account where Henry was concerned. But what of the Infanta? Was she a lusty young woman? Or was she sickly like her elder sister who had recently died in childbirth?
The more the King pondered this matter, the more eager he was to meet the Infanta.
THERE WAS consternation in the Infanta’s party.
A message had been brought to Ayala stating that the King was on his way to meet his son’s bride, who had stayed that night at the residence of the Bishop of Bath in Dogmersfield and was some fifteen leagues from London Bridge.
Ayala did not pass on the news to Puebla. Indeed he was determined to keep it from the man—not only because he disliked him and never lost an opportunity of insulting him, but because he really did believe that Puebla was more ready to serve Henry VII of England than Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain.
Instead he sought out Elvira Manuel.
“The King is on his way to meet us,” he told her abruptly. “He wishes to see the Infanta.”
“That is quite impossible,” retorted Elvira. “You know the instructions of their Highnesses.”
“I do. The Infanta is not to be seen by her bridegroom or anyone at the English Court until she is a wife. She is to remain veiled until after the ceremony.”
“I am determined,” said Elvira, “to obey the commands of the King and Queen of Spain, no matter what are the wishes of the King of England.”
“I wonder what Henry will say to that.” Ayala smiled somewhat mischievously, for he found the situation piquant and amusing.
“There is one thing that must be done,” said Elvira. “To prevent discord, you should go ahead and explain to the King.”
“I will leave at once,” Ayala told her. “In the meantime you should warn the Infanta.”
Ayala set out on the road to East Hampstead; and Elvira, her lips pursed with determination, prepared herself to do battle.
She went to Katharine and told her that the King would make an attempt to see her, and that on no account must he succeed.
Katharine was disturbed. She was afraid that the King of England might consider her extremely discourteous if she refused to receive him.
WHEN ARTHUR JOINED his father at East Hampstead, Henry noticed that his son looked wan and worried.
No, the King decided, the marriage shall not be consummated for a year. In any case I doubt whether Arthur would be capable of consummating it.
“Put your shoulders back, boy,” he said. “You stoop too much.”
Arthur obediently straightened his shoulders. There was no resentment. How differently young Henry would have behaved! But of course there would have been no necessity to criticize Henry’s deportment.
We should get more sons, thought the King anxiously.
“Well, my son,” he said, “very soon now you will be face to face with your bride.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You must not let her think that you are a child, you know. She is almost a year older than you are.”
“I know it, Father.”
“Very well. Prepare yourself to meet her.”
Arthur asked leave to retire and was glad when he reached his own apartment. He felt sick with anxiety. What should he say to his bride? What must he do with her? His brother Henry had talked slyly of these matters. Henry knew a great deal about them already. Henry ought to have been the elder son.
He would have made a good king, thought Arthur. I should have done better in the Church.
He let himself brood on the peace of monastic life. What relief! To be alone, to read, to meditate, not to have to take a prominent part in ceremonies, not to have to suffer continual reproach because a few hours in the saddle tired him, because he could never learn to joust and play the games at which Henry excelled.
“If only,” he murmured to himself, “I were not the first-born. If only I could miraculously change places with my brother Henry, how happy I could be!”
THE NEXT MORNING the King, with the Prince beside him, set out on the journey to Dogmersfield.
Almost immediately it began to rain, and the King looked uneasily at his son while Arthur squirmed in the saddle. His cough would almost certainly come back if he suffered a wetting, and although the rain was fine it was penetrating.
Arthur always felt that it was his fault that he had not been born strong. He tried to smile and look as though there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a ride in the rain.
When they were within a few miles of the Bishop’s Palace the King saw a rider galloping towards his party, and in a very short time he recognized the Spanish Ambassador Ayala.
Ayala drew up before Henry and sweeping off his hat bowed gracefully.
“News has been brought to me that Your Grace is on the way to se
e the Infanta.”
“That news is now confirmed,” answered the King. “So impatient was our young bridegroom that, having heard that the Infanta was at Dogmersfield, he could wait no longer. He himself has come hot-foot from Wales. He yearns to see his bride.”
Arthur tried to force his wet face into an expression which would confirm his father’s words as the Spanish Ambassador threw a sly smile in his direction which clearly conveyed his knowledge of the boy’s nervousness.
“Alas,” said Ayala, “Your Grace will be unable to see the bride.”
“I…unable to see the bride!” said the King in a cold, quiet voice.
“The King and Queen of Spain insist that their daughter should observe the customs of a high-born Spanish lady. She will be veiled until after the ceremony, and not even her bridegroom may see her face until then.”
The King was silent. A terrible suspicion had come into his mind; he was the most suspicious of men. Why should he not look on the face of the Infanta? What had the Spanish Sovereigns to hide? Was this some deformed creature they were sending him? “Not until after the ceremony.” The words sounded ominous.
“This seems a strange condition,” said Henry slowly.
“Sire, it is a Spanish custom.”
“I like it not.”
He turned his head slightly and said over his shoulder: “We will form a council, my lords. Here is an urgent matter to discuss. Ambassador, you will excuse us. It will take us but a short time to come to a decision, I imagine.”
Ayala bowed his head and drew his horse to the side of the road while the King waved a hand towards a nearby field.
“Come with us, Arthur,” he said. “You must join our council.”
Henry placed himself and his son in the center of the field and his followers ranged themselves about him. Then he addressed them:
“I like this not. I am denied admittance to my son’s bride although she is in my territory. I would not wish to go against the law in this matter. Therefore, the council must decide what should be done. The Infanta has been married to the Prince by proxy. What we must decide is whether she is now my subject; and, if she is my subject, what law could prevent my seeing her if I wished. I pray you, gentlemen, consider this matter, but make it quick for the rain shows no sign of abating and we shall be wet to the skin by the time we reach Dogmersfield.”
