by Jean Plaidy
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.
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.”
Without 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.”
Mary scarcely listened; she was too absorbed by her own affairs; but Katharine enjoyed the company of this light-hearted, beautiful child who was the favorite of everyone at Court.
She had seen nothing of the King or the Prince since she had left Windsor; she knew that the fleet of ships which had been in difficulties in the Channel were now being refitted and made ready for the journey to Spain. With the coming of spring they would sail away again.
I shall never see Juana again, thought Katharine. And if I did, what could we have to say to each other?
In April, Philip and Juana embarked at Weymouth and on a calm sea they set out for Spain.
Katharine remembered all the hopes that had come to her when Doña Elvira had first suggested such a meeting. How different the reality had been!
She knew, as she had never known before, that she was alone, and her future lay not with her own people but the English rulers.
Philip and Ferdinand Meet
NEWS WAS BROUGHT TO FERDINAND THAT HIS SON-IN-LAW had landed at Corunna.
This was disquieting news. Ferdinand knew he had good reason to mistrust Philip and that his son-in-law’s intention was to drive him out of Castile, become King himself and reduce Ferdinand to nothing but a petty monarch of Aragon.
This Ferdinand would fight against with all his might.
He was not an old man, he reminded himself. He felt younger than he had for many years. This was doubtless due to the fact that he had acquired a new wife, his beautiful Germaine.
Many eyebrows had been raised when Germaine had arrived at Dueñas, close by Valladolid, for there, thirty-seven years before, he had come in disguise from Aragon for his marriage to Isabella.
There were many people in Castile who looked upon Isabella as a saint, and they were deeply shocked that Ferdinand should consider replacing her; and to do so by a young and beautiful girl seemed double sacrilege; moreover as any fruit of the union might result in the breaking up of Spain into two kingdoms, this was not a popular marriage.
Ferdinand was realizing how much of his popularity he had owed to Isabella. Yet he had lost none of his ambition; and he w
as ready enough to end his six weeks’ honeymoon with the entrancing Germaine in order to go forward and meet Philip, to match his son-in-law’s rashness with his own experience and cunning.
There was one man in Spain whom he heartily disliked but who, he knew, was the country’s most brilliant statesman. This man was Ximenes, whom, against Ferdinand’s advice, Isabella had created Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain. Ferdinand summoned Ximenes to his presence and Ximenes came.
There was a faint contempt in the ascetic face, which Ferdinand guessed meant that the Archbishop was despising the bridegroom. This was a marriage which would seem unholy to Ximenes, and when he received him Ferdinand was conscious of a rising indignation. But he calmed himself. Ferdinand had learned to subdue his hot temper for the sake of policy.
“You have heard the news, Archbishop?” he asked when the Archbishop had greeted him in his somewhat superior manner, which Ferdinand thought implied that he, Ximenes, was the ruler.
“I have indeed, Highness.”
“Well?”
“It will be necessary to walk carefully. There should be a meeting between you and the Archduke, and it should be a peaceful one.”
“Will he agree to this?”
“He will if he is wise.”
“He is young, Archbishop. Wisdom and youth rarely go together.”
“Wisdom and age mate almost as rarely,” replied the Archbishop.
That allusion to the marriage made the hot blood rush to Ferdinand’s cheeks. He had often advised Isabella to send the insolent fellow back to his hermit’s cell. But he was too useful. He was too clever. And he was ready to devote that usefulness and cleverness to Spain.
“What in your opinion should be done in the matter?” asked Ferdinand shortly.
The Archbishop was silent for a while; then he said: “As husband of the Reina Proprietaria, Philip has a stronger claim to the Regency than Your Highness. Yet since you are a ruler of great experience and this is a young man who has had a greater experience of light living than of serious government, it might be that the grandees of Spain would prefer to see you as Regent rather than your son-in-law.”
