by Jean Plaidy
This seemed a good idea to Henry’s crafty mind. But he pointed out: “Her treasurer keeps a firm hand on the plate and jewels which he knows are to come as part payment of the dowry. He would never consent to her using them.”
Puebla appeared to be thoughtful. He knew Isabella and Ferdinand well and he was convinced that the fact that the plate and jewels had been used by their daughter would have no effect whatsoever on the bargain they had made. They needed money too desperately to consider lightly parting with it. But Puebla’s desire was not to work against Spain for the sake of Henry but only to give Henry the impression that he was doing so.
Then Puebla said: “If the Infanta accompanied the Prince to Wales, they could set up a small court there, and the Infanta’s plate could be used by them both. She would want to wear her jewels in her own little court.”
The King nodded. “The Princess of Wales shall accompany her husband to Ludlow,” he said.
THE JOURNEY westwards was pleasant enough. Arthur seemed happy to escape from his father’s notice. He rode at the head of the cavalcade and Katharine was close to him, riding on a pillion behind her master of horse; and when this mode of travel tired her she took to her litter which was borne between two horses.
The people came out in the villages to welcome her and Arthur, and she was delighted that Arthur always considered the pleasure of the people and would stop and speak to them, always gentle, always with a smile, no matter how tired he was—and he was so often tired.
She was glad that his father had sent a council of men with him, headed by Sir Richard Pole, which meant that Arthur had no decisions to make which would have caused him anxiety; he travelled as the representative of the King, and could always call in his councillors if action was necessary, and should it not be carried out in accordance with the King’s pleasure, it would be Sir Richard and the council who would be blamed, not Arthur.
With Katharine rode her own household headed by Doña Elvira, whose son, Don Iñigo Manrique, was among Katharine’s pages. Don Iñigo strove to ride beside Maria de Rojas, who did her best to keep close to Katharine. Alessandro Geraldini was also a member of the party, and the strife between him and Doña Elvira increased as the days passed.
Many of Katharine’s entourage who had accompanied her from Spain had now been sent back to their own country; and as Katharine rode towards Wales she felt a sudden desolation because she had said goodbye to the Archbishop of Santiago and many others. She envied them their return to Spain and she let herself wonder what was happening in the Madrid Alcazar or the great Alhambra. How happy she would have been if she could have burst into her mother’s apartments and thrown herself into those loving arms!
I shall never cease to long for her, she thought sadly as she lay back in her litter.
They rested for a night in the royal Manor at Bewdley in Worcestershire, and it was here that Arthur showed her the chapel in which their marriage had been performed by proxy.
“Puebla stood as your proxy,” said Arthur, wrinkling his nose with disgust.
Katharine laughed. “At least you prefer me to him!” she slowly answered in English, which he was teaching her and at which she was making good progress.
“I like him not,” answered Arthur. “And you I like so much.”
As they went back to the Manor and their separate apartments there, Katharine thought that she was fortunate indeed to have a husband as kind and gentle as Arthur.
“You are smiling,” said Arthur, “and you look happier than I have seen you look before.”
“I was thinking,” she answered, “that if my mother were here with us I should be completely happy.”
“When I am in truth King,” Arthur told her, “we will visit your mother and she shall visit us. You love her so dearly, do you not? Your voice is different when you mention her.”
“She is the kindest mother anyone ever had. She is the greatest of Queens and yet…and yet…”
“I understand,” said Arthur, touching her arm gently.
“Others did not understand her always,” went on Katharine. “They thought her cold and stern. But to us, her children, she was always gentle. Yet none of us, not even my sister Juana, would have dared disobey her. Sometimes I wish she had not been perfect; then it would have been easier to have said goodbye to her.”
They were silent, but during that stay at Bewdley she realized that she could easily love Arthur. As for Arthur, he was happy with his bride.
He was thinking: In a year or so I shall be her husband in very truth. Then we shall have children, and she will be such a mother to them as Queen Isabella was to her.
Arthur could look forward to the future with a serenity and pleasure he had rarely known before.
And so they came to Ludlow.
THE CASTLE ROSE from the point of a headland, and its bold gray towers appeared to be impregnable.
“There are no better views in all England than those to be seen from the castle,” Arthur told Katharine. “From the north side there is Corve Dale, and from the east you can see Titterstone Clee Hill. And stretched out beyond is the valley of the Teme with the Stretton Hills forming a background. I have a great affection for Ludlow. It is on the very borders of the Welsh country which I have always felt was my country.”
Katharine nodded. “The people here love you,” she said.
“Am I not the Prince of Wales? And do not forget that you are the Princess. They will love you too.”
“I fervently hope so,” answered Katharine.
Katharine never forgot her first nights in Ludlow Castle. There in the large hall fires had been lighted; cressets shone their light from the walls, and as she sat beside Arthur while the chieftains of Wales came to the castle to pay homage to their Prince, she felt that she was farther from the halls of the Alhambra than she had ever been.
Never had she seen such fierce men as those who came in from the Welsh mountains. She could not understand their melodious speech; some looked like mountain brigands, others appeared in odd finery, but all spoke like poets and entertained her with such sweet singing that she was astonished.
The first of the chieftains of Wales, Rhys ap Thomas, came to pay his homage and to swear to Arthur that he accepted him as his Prince and would fight for him whenever and wherever it should be necessary.
Arthur was a little in awe of the fierce chieftain who he knew hoped for much, now that there was a Tudor king on the throne. Perhaps he was a little disappointed. Perhaps the Tudor was more English than Welsh. But at least he sent his son to forge friendships with the people of Wales, and in the mountains they continued to hope that one day the Tudors would remember Wales.
With Rhys ap Thomas came his son, Griffith ap Rhys, a beautiful young boy who, said his father, sought service in the household of the Prince and Princess of Wales; and when the boy was brought forward to kneel and kiss the hands of Arthur and Katharine, he assured Arthur in the Welsh tongue of his loyalty and will to serve.
“Now speak the other tongues you know, boy,” said his father proudly; and Griffith ap Rhys began to speak in a language which Katharine recognized as French.
This delighted Katharine, because here was someone with whom she might be able to converse. She answered Griffith in French, and to her pleasure he was able to understand; and although their accents and intonations were so different they could chat together.
“I wish to make Griffith my gentleman usher,” she told Arthur, and there was nothing she could have said which would have given the boy’s father more delight.
There was no doubt in the minds of any that Wales was pleased with its Princess.
A FEW WEEKS PASSED, weeks which afterwards seemed to Katharine like a dream. She was happier than she had been since she left Spain. She, Arthur and Griffith ap Rhys rode together; she found great pleasure in talking in French to Griffith, and Arthur liked to listen to them. They were like two brothers and a sister—constantly discovering interests in common. In the long evenings by
the blazing fires and the lights of the torches there would be singing and dancing in the great hall; and those who watched said: “Before long this marriage will be consummated. The Prince and the Princess are falling in love.”
They would sit side by side, and Griffith would be seated on a stool at their feet, strumming on his harp and singing songs, the favorite of which was one about a great King Arthur who had once reigned in Britain.
One day, it was said, there would be another great King Arthur to rule over England and Wales; he would be this Arthur who now sat in the hall of Ludlow Castle. He was young yet; he was a little pale and seemed weak; but he was leaving boyhood behind him, he was becoming a man, and he had the fair young Princess from Spain beside him.
MARCH HAD SET IN and the snow gave place to rain. For days the mist hung about the drafty rooms of the castle; the damp seeped into the bones of all and even the great fires which blazed on the hearths could not drive the mist from Ludlow Castle.
Katharine longed for the cold, frosty weather; then she and Arthur could have gone riding together. She dared not suggest that they go out in the driving rain, for Arthur had begun to cough more persistently since they had come to Ludlow.
One day Griffith ap Rhys burst somewhat unceremoniously into their presence.
They were sitting by the fire in one of the smaller apartments of the castle and a few of their suite were with them.
Doña Elvira looked sternly at the young Welshman and was preparing to reproach him for forgetting the respect he owed to the Prince and Princess of Wales, when Griffith burst out: “I have ill news. The sweating sickness has come to Ludlow.”
A horrified silence fell on the company. The sweating sickness was considered to be one of the greatest calamities which could befall a community. It spread rapidly from one to another and invariably ended in death, although if the patient could survive the first twenty-four hours of the disease, it was said that he usually recovered.
Questions were fired at Griffith, who said that several of the townsfolk were stricken and that he had himself seen people in the streets sinking to the ground because the fever had overcome them before they could reach their homes.
When this was explained to Elvira she began giving rapid orders. The castle was to be closed to all visitors; they were to consider themselves in a state of siege. At all costs the sweating sickness must not be allowed to enter Ludlow Castle while the Infanta of Spain was there.
The news had cast a gloom on the company, but Katharine was eager to know more about the dreaded disease, and Griffith sat beside her and told her and Arthur how it began with a fever and that many died before the sweating stage began. Then they sweated profusely and, if they could cling to life long enough, they stood a chance of recovery; for in sweating they cast off the evil humors of the body and thus recovered.
Arthur was disturbed; he told Katharine: “The disease broke out soon after my father won the throne. I think some looked upon it as an evil omen. It is strange that it should have broken out here in Ludlow now we are come. It would seem that there is a blight on our House.”
“No,” replied Katharine fiercely, “this sickness could happen anywhere.”
“It started in the army which landed at Milford Haven with my father.”
Katharine endeavored to disperse his gloom, but it was not easy; and that night the singing ceased in Ludlow Castle.
KATHARINE AWOKE in the night. She was conscious of a curious burning sensation in her limbs; she tried to call out but her mouth was parched.
She lay still, thinking: So it has come to Ludlow Castle and I am its victim. Yet if I am to die, then I shall be with my sister Isabella and my brother Juan, and I think I should be happy.
There was another thought which came to her and which she would not voice. It was that her mother might not be long for this world, and if she too were going to pass from the Earth to be with Isabella and Juan, then Katharine would long to join them.
She felt lightheaded; she had forgotten she was in grim Ludlow Castle; she thought she was back behind the rose-tinted walls of the Alhambra; she thought that she lingered in one of the patios, trailing her hot fingers in the cool fountains; but the fountains were not cool; they were hot as fire and she believed she had put her fingers in the fires in which the heretics were burned, mistaking them for fountains.
She was tossing from side to side in her bed when Maria de Rojas came to bid her good morning.
Maria took one look at her mistress and was terrified. She ran screaming to Doña Elvira.
SO KATHARINE lay a victim of the dreaded sickness. All through the day and night which followed Elvira was in the sickroom. Angrily she ordered possets and herbal drinks to be prepared in case they might be of some use to her Infanta. She cursed those who had dared bring infection into the castle. She had no thought of anything but the health of her mistress.
Katharine had passed into the sweating period. Elvira hovered anxiously about her bed. If she sweated profusely the evil humors would be thrown off; and she was sweating.
“The Sovereigns will never forgive me,” cried Elvira, “for letting their daughter face such infection. She must recover. It is unthinkable that she should die…her dowry not even paid, her virginity intact.”
The energy of Doña Elvira affected all who came in contact with the sickroom.
News was brought for Katharine, but Elvira would not admit the messenger.
So the Prince was sick? Well, was not the Prince always ailing? The Infanta, who was never ill, was now laid low with their miserable sweating sickness!
It was twenty-four hours since Katharine had been taken ill. She lay limp and exhausted on her bed; but she still lived.
Doña Elvira busied herself with making a brew of aromatic herbs, laurel and juniper berries which the physicians had recommended; and when Katharine had drunk it she opened her eyes and said: “Doña Elvira, bring my mother to me.”
“You are in your bed in Ludlow Castle, Highness. You have been very ill but I have nursed you back to health.”
Katharine nodded her head slightly. “I remember now,” she said; and there were tears in her eyes which would never have appeared but for her bodily weakness. She wanted her mother now, even more than ever. She knew that, if only she could feel that cool hand on her brow, see those serene eyes looking into hers, commanding her to bear whatever ill fortune God had seen fit to send to her, she could have wept for joy; as it was she could not prevent herself from weeping in sorrow.
“The worst is over,” said Elvira. “You will get well now. I have nursed you with my own hands, and shall do so until you are completely recovered.”
“Thank you, Doña Elvira.”
Elvira took Katharine’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Always I am at your service, my dearest Infanta,” she said. “Do you not understand that?”
“I understand,” said Katharine; and she closed her eyes. But try as she might she could not prevent the tears seeping through.
If I could see her but once…she thought. She turned her head that Doña Elvira might not see the tears.
“Does my mother know of my illness?” she asked.
“She will hear of it and of your recovery in the same message.”
“I am glad of that. Now she will not be grieved. If I had died that would have been her greatest sorrow. She loves me dearly.”
Now the tears were flowing more freely, and it was no use trying to restrain them. These were the tears which had been demanding to be shed for so long, and which in her strength she had withheld. Now she was too weak to fight them and she wept shamelessly.
“For she loves me so,” she whispered, “and we are parted. There will never be another to love me as my mother loved me. All my life there will never be love for me such as she gave me.”
“What nonsense is this?” said Elvira. “You must keep well covered. It may be that you have not sweated enough. There may be more humors to be released. Come, what would your mother sa
y if she saw those foolish tears?”
“She would understand,” cried Katharine. “Did she not always understand?”
Elvira covered her up sharply. The Infanta’s tears shocked her.
She is very weak, she thought. But the worst is over. I have nursed her through this. She is right when she says the Queen dotes on her. I shall have Isabella’s undying gratitude for nursing her daughter through this illness.
THERE WAS A MUFFLED silence throughout the castle. People were speaking in whispers. Griffith ap Rhys sat with his harp at his knees, but the harp was silent.
There was death in the Castle of Ludlow. Disease had struck where it could not be defeated.
In the chamber of the Prince of Wales the candles were lighted by the bed and the watchers kept their vigil. Sir Richard Pole’s courier was on his way to Greenwich, to break the news to the King and Queen.
In the whole of Ludlow Castle Katharine, lying on her sick bed, was the only one who did not know that this day she had become a widow.
Intrigue at Durham House
AS SOON AS QUEEN ELIZABETH RECEIVED THE MESSAGE that she was to go with all haste to the King’s chamber, as soon as she looked into the face of the messenger, she knew that some dire tragedy had befallen her House. And when she learned that the couriers had come from Ludlow she guessed that what she had been dreading so long had at last taken place.
She steeled herself for the ordeal.
Henry was standing in the center of the chamber; his usually pale face was gray and his eyes looked stricken. He did not speak for a moment, and the Queen’s glance went from her husband to the Friar Observant who was the King’s confessor.
“My son?” whispered the Queen.
The Friar bowed his head.
“He is…ill?”
“He has departed to God, Your Grace.”
The Queen did not speak. For so many years she had waited for this news, dreading it. The fear of it had come to her in the days when she had held Arthur in her arms, a weak baby who did not cry but lay placid in his cradle, not because he was contented, but because he was too weak for aught else. It had come at last.
