by Jean Plaidy
It was true that Ferdinand was anxious to make an alliance with the French King, Louis XII. The situation had changed. The French had been driven from Naples, for a too easy success had made them careless; and Ferdinand had Gonsalvo Cordova, the Great Captain, to fight for him.
In the circumstances, Louis was delighted to see the trouble between Ferdinand and his son-in-law Philip. Philip or his son Charles was going to be the most powerful man in Europe. There would be Maximilian’s dominions to come to him, including Austria, Flanders and Burgundy; but that was not all; for from Juana would come the united crowns of Spain, and in addition all the overseas dependencies.
To Louis alliance with Ferdinand seemed advisable, even though Louis’ daughter had been promised to young Charles.
Louis laid down his conditions. He would relinquish his claim to Naples, which he would give to the young bride as her dowry. Germaine de Foix was the daughter of Jean de Foix, Viscount of Narbonne; this viscount’s mother had been Leonora, Queen of Navarre, half sister to Ferdinand, and she had poisoned her sister Blanche to win the Crown of Navarre. The Viscount had married one of the sisters of Louis XII, so Germaine was therefore not only related to Louis but to Ferdinand.
Ferdinand also agreed to pay Louis a million gold ducats during the course of the following ten years to compensate Louis for what he had lost in the Naples campaign.
This was the news which came to Katharine and which seemed to her such an insult to her mother. It was not merely that her father had taken a young wife in her mother’s place, but, as she realized, this marriage could result in destroying that policy for which Isabella had worked during the whole of her reign: the unity of Spain. It had been Isabella’s delight that when she married Ferdinand she united Castile and Aragon; and when together they drove the Moors from the kingdom of Granada they had made a united Spain. But if this new marriage were fruitful, if Germaine bore Ferdinand a son, that son would be the heir of Aragon, while Juana and her heirs—and she already had sons—would be rulers of Castile. Thus by his selfish action—perhaps to have a beautiful young wife, but more likely to grasp the somewhat empty title of King of Naples—Ferdinand was showing his indifference to the lifelong wishes of Isabella.
This treaty between Ferdinand and Louis had already been signed in Blois.
Katharine, no longer a child, no longer ignorant of state politics and the overwhelming greed and pride of ambitious men and women, wept afresh for her mother.
IT WAS BLEAK JANUARY and there were storms all along the coast; the wind swept up the Thames and not even the great fires which blazed in Windsor Castle could keep out the cold. Katharine sat huddled about the fire with some of her maids of honor. They were very gloomy and rarely ceased talking of their desire to return to Spain.
Francesca de Carceres, who was impulsive and never could control her tongue, blamed the various members of Katharine’s household in turn. First she blamed Puebla, then Juan de Cuero. They were all in league with the King of England, she declared, and their desire was to keep them all in this island until they grew crippled with rheumatism.
Maria de Rojas was sunk in gloom. As she had mourned for her Englishman, now she mourned for Iñigo Manrique.
Katharine was dipping into her store of plate and jewels, and often wondered what would happen when the time came for the remainder of them to be valued.
There was no news from Spain. Ferdinand rarely had time to write to his daughter. He was too busy, she supposed bitterly, thinking of his new marriage which would shortly take place.
As they sat thus they heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and shouts from without, and Francesca ran to the window.
“There is some excitement below,” she said. “It is evidently important news.”
“News from home?” asked Katharine quickly.
“No,” answered Francesca, as the others came to the window to stand beside her. “That is no Spanish courier.”
Katharine who had risen sat down listlessly.
“There is never news from Spain…never news that one wishes to hear.”
The other girls turned from the window, and Maria de Salinas said: “It must change soon. It cannot go on like this. Perhaps when there is a new King…”
“He will marry Her Highness,” cried Francesca.
Katharine shook her head. “No, he is promised to Marguerite of Angoulême.”
“Oh, he has been promised to so many,” Francesca said.
“That happens to most of us,” put in Maria de Rojas bitterly.
Katharine was silent; she was thinking of the Prince of Wales, whom she saw occasionally. It was a strange position; she did not know whether she was still affianced to him or not. It was true there had been a formal betrothal in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house, but ever since then there had been rumors of other brides who had been chosen for him.
He was growing up quickly, for he seemed much older than his years. When they were together she would often find his eyes fixed on her broodingly. It was a little disquieting; it made her wonder what the future would hold for her when the old King died and Henry VIII was King of England.
Someone was at the door, begging to be allowed to see the Infanta, and Inez de Veñegas came bursting unceremoniously into the apartment. She was clearly excited.
“Highness,” she stammered. “There is great excitement below. Ships broken by the storm have sought refuge here in England.”
Francesca said impatiently: “That’s to be expected in such weather.”
“But these are the ships of Her Highness the Queen of Castile.”
Katharine had risen; she grew pale and then flushed scarlet.
“Juana…my sister…in England!”
“Highness, she is here…seeking refuge from the storm. Her fleet of ships has met with disaster on their way from Flanders to Spain. And she and her husband and their suite…”
Katharine clasped her hands across her breast; her heart was leaping with excitement.
Juana here…in England!
This was the happiest news she had heard for years.
JUANA, QUEEN OF CASTILE, was happy at last. She was on a ship bound for Castile, and her husband was with her; and while they sailed together it was impossible for him to escape her.
She was wildly gay; she would stand on deck, her face held to the wind while it loosened her hair and set it flying about her head. Her attendants looked at her anxiously, then covertly; as for her husband, sometimes he jeered at her, sometimes he was ironically affectionate—so much depended on his mood.
Philip was a man of moods. He changed his plans from day to day, as he changed his mistresses. If he had held a place less prominent in world politics this would have been of less importance; as it was he was becoming noted for his inconsequential ways, and this was dangerous in a son of Maximilian. There was no ruler in Europe who did not view him with disquiet. Yet, he was one of the most powerful men in Europe on account of his position; he knew it. It delighted him. He loved power, whether it was in politics or in his affairs with women.
He came on deck to stand beside his wife.
How mad she looks! he thought, and he was exultant. He would exact complete obedience or he would have her put away. It would be no lie to say: “I must keep her in safe custody. Alas, my wife is a madwoman.”
Yet there were times when it was necessary to say: “Oh no, she is not mad. A little impulsive, a little hysterical, but that is not madness.”
This was one of the latter occasions, because he was going to claim her Crown of Castile. The people of Spain would never accept the son of Maximilian as their ruler; they would only accept the husband of their Queen Isabella’s daughter, Juana, who was now herself Queen of Castile.
Juana turned to look at him, and that soft, yearning look which sometimes amused, sometimes sickened him, came into her eyes.
How beautiful he is! she thought. The wind had brought a richer color to his cheeks, which were always rosy; his long golden hair
fell to his shoulders; his features were like those of a Greek god; his blue eyes sparkled with health and the joy of living. He was not tall, nor was he short; he was slim and he moved with grace. The title of Philip the Handsome, by which he was known, had not been given out of idle flattery.
“The wind is rising,” she said, but her expression said something else, as it always did when he was near her. It implored him to stay with her every hour of the day and night, it betrayed the fact that she was only happy when he was with her.
Philip turned to her suddenly and gripped her wrist. She felt the pain of this, but he was often cruel to her and she welcomed his cruelty. She was happier when he laid his hands on her—no matter how brutally—than when he reserved his affection or anger for others.
“I anticipate trouble with that sly old fox, your father.”
She winced. She was, after all, Isabella’s daughter, and Isabella had taught her children the importance of filial duty. Even in wild Juana, besotted as she was by her desire for this cruelly wayward husband, the influence of the great Isabella still persisted.
“I doubt not that he will be pleased to see us,” she began.
“Pleased? I’ll tell you what, my dear wife: He’s hoping we shall perish at sea. He’s hoping that he can take our son Charles under his guidance and rule Castile and Aragon as the boy’s Regent. That’s what Ferdinand hopes. And we are in his way.”
“It cannot be so. He is my father. He loves me.”
Philip laughed. “That’s your foolish woman’s reasoning. Your father never loved anything but crowns and ducats.”
“Philip, when we are in Castile, don’t put me away. Let me stay with you.”
He put that handsome head on one side and smiled at her sardonically. “That depends on you, my dear. We cannot show a madwoman to the people of Castile.”
“Philip, I am not mad.… I am not mad…not when you’re kind to me. If you would only be affectionate to me. If there were no other women…”
“Ah,” Philip mocked. “You ask too much.” Then he began to laugh and laid an arm about her shoulder. Immediately she clung to him, her feverish fingers tearing at his doublet: He looked at her with distaste and, turning from her to stare at the heaving water, he said: “This time, you will obey me. There shall be nothing like that Conchillos affair again, eh?”
Juana began to tremble.
“You have forgotten that little matter?” went on Philip. “You have forgotten that, when your father sought to become Regent of Castile, you were persuaded by that traitor, Conchillos, to sign a letter approving of your father’s acts?”
“I did it because you were never with me. You did not care what became of me. You spent all your time with that big Flemish woman…”
“So you turned traitor out of jealousy, eh? You said to yourself, I will serve my father, and if that means I am the enemy of my husband, what do I care?”
“But I did care, Philip. If you had asked me I would never have signed it. I would have done everything you asked of me.”
“Yet you knew that by signing that letter you went against my wishes. You set yourself on the side of your father against me. You thought you would take a little revenge because I preferred another woman to you. Look at yourself sometimes, my Queen. Think of yourself, and then ask yourself why I should prefer to spend my nights with someone else.”
“You are cruel, Philip. You are too cruel.…”
He gripped her arm, and again she bore the pain. She thought fleetingly: it will be bruised tomorrow. And she would kiss those bruises because they were the marks made by his fingers. Let him be cruel, but never let him leave her.
“I ask you to remember what happened,” said Philip quietly. “Conchillos was put into a dungeon. What became of him there I do not know. But it was just reward, was it not, my cherished one, for a man who would come between a husband and his wife. As for my little Queen, my perfidious Juana, you know what happened to her. I had her put away. I said: My poor wife is suffering from delusions. She has inherited her madness from her mad grandmother, the old lady of Arevalo. It grieves me that I must shut her away from the world for a while. Remember. You are free again. You may be a sane woman for a while. You may go to Castile and claim your crown. But take care that you do not find yourself once more shut away from the world.”
“You use me most brutally, Philip.”
“Remember it,” he murmured, “and be warned by it.”
He turned then and left her, and she looked after him longingly. With what grace he walked! He was like a god come to Earth from some pagan heaven. She wished she could control her desire for him; but she could not; it swamped all her emotions, all her sense. She was ready to jettison pride, dignity, decency—everything that her mother had taught her was the heritage of a Princess of Spain—all these she would cast aside for a brief ecstatic hour of Philip’s undivided attention.
THERE WAS DISASTER ABOARD. A few hours before, when they had sailed into the English Channel, there had been a strange calm on the sea and in the sky which had lasted almost an hour; then suddenly the wind rose, the sky darkened and the storm broke.
Juana left her cabin; the wind pulled at her gown and tore her hair from the headdress. She laughed; she was not afraid. There was no one on board who feared death less than she did.
“We shall die together,” she shouted. “He cannot leave me now. I shall be by his side; I shall wrap my arms about him and we shall go to meet Death together…together at last.”
Two of her women came to her; they believed that a fit of madness was about to take possession of her. It seemed understandable. Everyone on board ship was terrified and fearful that they would never reach Castile.
“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 ro
yal 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.
