by Jean Plaidy
“Wash the clothes here,” she would cry, “that I may see what you are about.”
And water and tubs would be brought to the royal apartments while the poor bewildered washerwoman washed the clothes under the suspicious eye of the Queen.
It was small wonder that rumors of her madness were growing.
She was heavy with her child now, and sometimes she would talk of it.
“It is not so long since he was here,” she would say, putting her hands on her body that she might feel the movement of the child. “He was happy to see his family growing. I hope I shall be able to tell him soon that we have another boy.”
There were occasions when certain grandees came to her and implored her to take an interest in state matters, reminding her that she was the Queen.
But she only shook her head. “I shall do nothing more, until I die, but pray for the soul of my husband and guard his dead body,” she said. “There is time for nothing else.”
They could only shake their heads and wait for the return of Ferdinand.
The year was passing and December came. In January her child would be born, and those who wished her well told themselves that with the coming of the child she would forget this obsession with her husband’s dead body.
It was one cold December day when she set out to hear mass at the Cartuja where Philip’s body lay. Soon, it was said, she would be unable to make even the short journey from the palace, encumbered as she was with her pregnancy. She went through the usual ceremony of kissing the lips of her husband and embracing his feet; and then suddenly she announced: “It was his wish that he should be buried in Granada. He has tarried long enough here. I shall take him to Granada. Pray prepare to leave at once.”
“Your Highness,” she was told, “this is winter. You could not cross the steppes of Castile at this time of the year.”
She drew herself up to her full height and her eyes flashed wildly. “It was his wish that he should go to Granada, and it is my desire to take him there.”
“With the coming of the spring…”
“Now,” she said. “We leave today.”
This was indeed madness. She proposed to cross the snowy wastes between Burgos and Granada in the bitterly cold weather, and she herself in her eighth month of pregnancy!
The monks did their best to dissuade her. She grew angry; she reminded them that she was their Queen.
“He shall stay no longer in this place,” she cried. “It is unworthy of him. Prepare at once, I say.”
“But the weather, Highness…”
“He will not feel the weather. He never cared for the heat. He loved the open air. The cold winds invigorated him, he said.” Then she suddenly screamed: “Why do you hesitate? Do not dare disobey me. If you do it will be the worse for you. Prepare at once. We are taking him to Granada this day.”
ACROSS THE SNOWY TABLELANDS the procession slowly made its tortuous way. The wind penetrated the garments of the bishops, the choristers, the men of the Church and the menservants. The only person who did not feel the cold was the Queen who, in her nun’s robes, was carried over the rough land in her litter.
There was not a person in the retinue who did not hope that the Queen’s child would be born before the middle of January when it was expected. They prayed for anything which could put an end to this nightmare journey.
Beside the litter, and covered with a velvet pall, was the hearse, so that it should never be out of the Queen’s sight. As they walked it was the duty of the choristers to chant their mournful dirges.
At dusk the Queen reluctantly allowed the cortège to halt at an inn or a monastery, and there each night the coffin must be opened that the Queen might throw herself upon the dead body, kissing those silent lips again and again.
Those who looked on at this ritual asked themselves how long they could expect to be at the mercy of a madwoman’s whims.
One night the coffin was carried into what was believed to be a monastery; and there, before entering the buildings, by the light of torches the coffin was opened and the gruesome ceremony began.
While it was in progress a figure appeared from the building followed by two others.
One of the bishops said: “We come, with the Queen, to rest here a night.”
“I will make ready to receive Her Highness,” was the answer. But at the sound of that high, musical voice Juana leaped to her feet, her eyes suddenly blazing.
“That is a woman!” she cried. “Come here, woman. No…no. Stay where you are. I will come to you. You shall not come near him.”
“I am the Abbess, Highness,” said the woman.
Juana screamed at her bishops: “How dare you bring me here! There are women here. That place is full of women. You know I will let no woman come near him.”
“Highness, these are nuns…”
“Nuns are women,” she retorted. “I trust no women. Close the coffin. We are going on.”
“Highness, the night is cold and dark.”
“Close the coffin!” She turned to the Abbess. “And you…go back into your convent. Do not dare to set foot outside until we have gone. No woman shall come near him, I tell you.”
The Abbess bowed and retired, thankful that the mad Queen was not to be her guest.
The coffin was closed; the procession left the convent precincts and went on, in the hope that the next place of refuge would be a monastery.
So the dreary journey continued with painful slowness.
It was a great relief when it reached the village of Torquemada, for here Juana’s warning pains began, and even she realized that she could not go on. They had come only thirty miles in some three weeks.
The coffin was set up where she might see it and make sure that no woman came near it; and on the 14th January in that year 1507 her child was born.
It was a girl and she called her Catalina after her sister, about whom now and then her conscience troubled her. She was unhappy, even as I am, she thought; and yet I did not listen to her tale of suffering.
She lay in melancholy silence, the child in her arms, while she kept continual watch over all that was left to her of her gay and heartless Philip.
IN ENGLAND HENRY was waiting impatiently for news of his proposed match with Juana.
He sent for Puebla, and the gouty old man was carried to Richmond in his litter.
“I hear nothing from Spain concerning my proposals,” he began. “It would seem that they are unwelcome.”
“Nothing, Your Grace, would be more welcome to Spain than a match between Your Highness and Queen Juana.”
“Then why do I hear nothing?”
“My master is still in Naples, and there is much to occupy him.”
“And the Queen of Castile herself?”
“Has been so recently widowed, so recently brought to bed of a child…”
Those words increased Henry’s impatience. There was a woman who had borne several children. If she were his wife he need have no doubt that he could beget many boys. She had already borne two healthy boys and she was only twenty-eight. Certainly she was capable of bearing more. She had given proof of her fruitfulness. Had not her husband left her pregnant when he died? And it was said that he had given the greater part of his attention to other women.
Puebla, accustomed now to Henry’s irritable temper, reminded him that Juana was considered to be somewhat unstable of mind.
“I saw her here in England, and I was impressed by her charm and beauty,” said the King. “I did not see any signs of insanity. And yet…if it should be that she is insane I should not consider that an obstacle to marriage, for she has proved that this mental illness does not prevent her from bearing children.”
“I will tell my master what Your Grace has said.”
Henry nodded, and a familiar grimace of pain crossed his face as he moved in his chair.
“There is one other little matter,” he went on. “His Highness Ferdinand may well return to the position he occupied immediately aft
er the death of Queen Isabella. He will return to power as Regent of Castile and ruler of Spain—that is if his daughter is indeed unfit to take her place on the throne. He has made no effort to pay the remainder of his daughter’s dowry. Say this to him when you write: If he does not soon pay this long overdue account there will be only one course open to me. I shall be obliged to consider the match between his daughter Katharine and the Prince of Wales broken off.”
Puebla felt a lifting of his spirits. This was an indication that a match between Katharine and young Henry was still possible. Henry’s terms were: the rest of the dowry which had not been paid after Arthur’s death, and marriage with Juana.
JUANA DID NOT RECOVER quickly from the birth of her daughter Catalina. Those who had accompanied her on the thirty-mile trek from Burgos hoped that when she was well again her interests would be concentrated on the child, and she would give up this mad project of taking her husband’s corpse to Granada in this way.
While Juana lay in her apartments, the cradle of her daughter beside her, and the coffin placed in the room so that she could gaze at it at any hour of the day or night, one of her servants came to tell her that a friar, who had heard she was in Torquemada, had travelled far to see her. He had important news for her.
Juana was not interested in any news which could be brought to her; but she agreed to see the Friar, and when the man stood before her she looked at him with melancholy eyes clearly showing her indifference.
The man was travel-stained; his eyes were wild. As he bowed, his gaze went at once to the coffin and stayed there; and watching him, Juana lost her listlessness and found herself gripped by excitement.
“Highness,” cried the Friar, “I have had a vision.”
“Of whom?”
The Friar indicated the coffin. “I saw him rise from it. He came out, all shining and beautiful.”
Juana sat up in her bed that she might see the Friar’s face more clearly.
“He rose from the dead!” she whispered.
“Yes, Highness. He threw off the cerecloths and there he was, whole and well; and there was great rejoicing.”
“This came to you in a dream?”
“As a vision, Highness. I had fasted many days and spent many more on my knees in humble seclusion. Then this vision came to me. He left his coffin and walked from this place into the streets. I saw him clearly in these very streets…and I knew that it was in Torquemada that the Queen’s consort had risen from the dead.”
“Here in Torquemada!” cried Juana, clasping her hands together in ecstasy. “Then it was by divine will that we left Burgos…that we came here and were forced to rest at Torquemada. Oh, glory be to God and all His saints! Here in Torquemada my Philip will rise from the dead.”
“I came with all haste to tell Your Highness.”
“I thank you with all my heart. You shall be well rewarded.”
The Friar closed his eyes and bowed his head.
Excitement gripped the village of Torquemada. All were waiting for a miracle. Outside the house in which Juana lodged people gathered; they were coming in from the neighboring villages to wait for the miracle.
Juana had changed completely; all her melancholy was thrown aside; she was gay—not hysterically so, but with a quiet contentment. She was certain that the Friar was a holy man and that Philip was about to return to life.
She kept her vigil by the coffin, determined that she would be the first to welcome him back to life. He would hear then how she had kept him with her, and he would be so much happier to awaken from the dead by her side than he would have been to awaken in the gloom of some dismal vault that he would be grateful to her. If ever he had needed proof of her love he would have it now.
The Friar, well rewarded, left Torquemada, but the sightseers continued to come in. The summer was hot and the village had never contained so many people; and as the houses were filled, many were forced to sleep in the street and the fields.
In the heat of the afternoon one of the sightseers collapsed suddenly and lay groaning in a high fever. He died almost immediately, and that very day three more people were stricken in the same manner. Before the next day came, the crowds in and about Torquemada realized that someone had brought the plague among them, and were terrified.
News was brought to Juana that there was plague in Torquemada.
“Highness,” said one of her bishops, “we should prepare to leave this place with all speed.”
“Leave it!” she screamed. “But it is here that my Philip will come to life again.”
“Highness, every hour you delay you put yourself and the child in danger.”
“Our faith is being tried,” she answered. “If I leave Torquemada now there will be no miracle.”
Again and again efforts were made to persuade her. Juana remained stubborn.
So, while the plague raged in Torquemada, Juana stayed there with her newly born daughter and the remains of her husband, waiting for a miracle.
ALL THROUGH THE SUMMER Juana remained in Torquemada. The plague abated with the passing of the hot weather, and still Juana watched over the coffin, waiting for a miracle.
There were occasions when she believed that Philip had indeed risen from the dead, and her servants would hear her murmuring endearments or loudly upbraiding him for his infidelities. It was a strange household that rested in the village of Torquemada. There was the Queen of Castile, living humbly with no women in her household except the washerwoman, a young Princess who thrived in spite of the conditions in which she lived, and the remains in the coffin which were regularly kissed and embraced.
Then one day there was great rejoicing in Torquemada. The news spread rapidly, and all in that grim household knew that the days of waiting were over.
Ferdinand had arrived in Valencia. Now there would be some law and order throughout Castile.
“I MUST GO TO meet my father,” declared Juana. “He will expect it of me.”
She had either forgotten the Friar’s prophecy or given up all hope of its coming true, for it was almost with relief that she prepared to go.
She had no wish to see the sun, she said. She was a widow and her life would therefore in future be lived in darkness. She would travel only by night and by the light of torches, and wherever she went there would her husband go with her.
In vain did those who cared for her comfort seek to dissuade her; any opposition to her will sent her into paroxysms of rage. She would be obeyed. She would have them remember that, although she was the most unfortunate widow in the world, she was their Queen, and from them she expected obedience.
So once more the cortège set out. Beside her went the hearse so that she never lost sight of Philip’s coffin. They travelled by the light of torches and the going was rough and very slow. The choristers sang their dismal funeral dirges as they went; and Juana, riding or carried in her litter, travelled always in melancholy silence.
It was at Tortoles that Ferdinand and his daughter came face to face.
When Ferdinand saw her, he was horrified. It was years since they had met, but the lapse of time did not entirely account for the great change. It was almost impossible to believe that this sad woman, with the melancholy eyes in which madness lurked, was his gay daughter who had often shocked her mother by her wildness.
Juana also was not unmoved. She found herself in those first moments of reunion remembering the days of her childhood, when she, her brother, sisters, father and mother had all been together.
She went on her knees and gripped her father’s hands, while Ferdinand, astonished at his emotion, knelt too and, putting his arms about her, held her tenderly.
“My daughter, my daughter,” he murmured, “what has happened to bring you to this?”
“Oh, my father,” she murmured, “I have suffered as few are called upon to suffer. I have lost all that I love.”
“There are your children. They can bring great comfort.”
“They are his children too,” she said,
“but when he died the sun went from life. Now there is only darkness, for it is perpetual night.”
Ferdinand rose from his knees, his emotion evaporating. If Juana was really as mad as she seemed, then the way would be easy. He could now be sure of taking the Regency.
“I will care for you now,” he said, and she did not notice the glint in his eyes; nor did she see any hidden meaning in his words.
“It is a joy to me that you have come,” she said.
Ferdinand pushed back the black hood and kissed her brow.
He thought: She is indeed mad. There can be no doubt of it. Regent of Castile until Charles is of age! There were many years of government ahead of him.
“We cannot stay here in Tortoles,” said Ferdinand. “We should travel to a place where we can live and discuss matters of state in comfort.”
She did not demur and he was delighted that she appeared ready to agree with everything he said; but he soon discovered how stubborn she could be.
“I only travel by night,” she told him.
He was astonished.
“Travel by night! But how is that possible? The journey would take four times as long.”
“That may be so, but I am in no hurry. I am shut away from the sun and the light of day. My life from now on will be lived in darkness.”
“Certainly we cannot travel by night. You must end this foolishness.”
Then he saw it, the flash of obstinacy, and he remembered that she was Isabella’s daughter. Similar conflicts came to his mind; he remembered how often his will had pulled against that of Isabella, and how Isabella had invariably won because she was the Queen of Castile and he but her consort. Now here was Isabella’s daughter reminding him that she was the Queen of Castile and he but her father.
Ferdinand determined then that all Castile must know that Juana suffered from periodic insanity, that she could not be relied upon; and the only way in which Castile could be satisfactorily ruled was by a Regent while the Queen spent her life in seclusion.
