I knew that Doña Elvira's brother, Don Juan Manuel, was my father's ambassador to the court of Emperor Maximilian, Philip's father. Don Juan had been loyal to my mother as long as she lived, but I now learned from the ambassador that Don Juan hated my father. "Don Juan leads a group of discontented Spanish noblemen determined to end your father's rule in Castilla through your sister," explained Puebla, his voice hoarse. "They will hand it over to Philip, who will rule Castilla in Juana's stead. Don Juan has devised a plot to align King Henry with Philip against your father."
I was dismayed by Don Rodrigo's words. "You speak of Don Juan Manuel. But what has this to do with Doña Elvira?"
"Everything, my lady. Doña Elvira also hates your father, and she has now found a way to use your desire to see your sister as a way to further her brother's plot. A meeting between Philip and King Henry could result in disaster for King Ferdinand and for Spain. Please, my lady princess," begged Don Rodrigo, "listen to me. Such a meeting must not take place. You must prevent it."
Was this another of his lies? Or was I finally hearing the truth? My thoughts raced in all directions. I was so shaken that I could barely stand. I needed to sit down, and I needed to think. "The chapel," I said. "Kindly accompany me there."
Somehow I managed to walk, unsteady as I felt, to the small chapel royal, the ambassador following at a little distance. Fortunately, the dimly lit chapel was empty, and we withdrew to a bench farthest from the altar. We spoke in whispers.
As the ambassador explained the situation in greater detail, I began to see how badly my mother had misjudged Doña Elvira. When I left Spain, my mother believed she had done me a great service by appointing Doña Elvira to stand in her stead as my protector and guide. Now I recognized that the lady's virtue was overshadowed by her thirst for power. This so-called virtuous woman was guilty of treachery—to me and to my father's kingdom. The betrayal was absolute. I felt my soul bleed. The time for weeping would come later.
All my life I had been schooled in obedience. As a result, I had obeyed Doña Elvira unquestioningly, even when I seethed with resentment. Now I could see that I had been wrong not to resist. Don Rodrigo must have understood all along that Doña Elvira was capable of plotting an intrigue against my father and the best interests of Spain. Now I chose to believe him.
When Don Rodrigo had answered all my questions, I told him to leave me. Alone, then, I walked with trembling legs to the front of the chapel, where I knelt before the altar and opened my aching heart to God's tender mercy. "Oh Lord," I prayed, "grant me the wisdom to see my duty and the strength to perform it." I have no notion of how long I remained there on my knees, but when at last I rose and made my way out of the chapel, I felt strong again.
My duty was clear now, and I acted without hesitation. I stormed into my duenna's chambers and confronted her. "I know that you are part of your brother's wicked plot to bring about the downfall of King Ferdinand."
Her already pallid face grew ashen, and her glittering eyes filled with fear. At first she attempted to deny any knowledge of a scheme or her complicity in any intrigue. But I would have none of her worthless denials.
"You are dismissed from my service, madam," I said, in a voice cold with fury. Doña Elvira dropped to her knees and waited with bowed head, for once unable to speak. "And you are no longer welcome here. I expect that you will leave England without delay."
I swept out of her chamber and assigned a servant to assist her—and to keep watch on her. Within three days she, her husband, and her son, Don Iñigo, were on a ship bound for Flanders.
My duenna was my duenna no more. Never again would she tell me what I could and could not do. Henceforth, I vowed, I would be mistress of my own court—and of my own life.
CHAPTER 12
Descent into Madness
Richmond Palace, November 1505
Prince Henry followed the page's smoking torch down a steep flight of rough stone steps to a dim cellar beneath the palace. A narrow, twisting passageway led to the heavy oak door of the alchemist's laboratory. The door swung open on creaking iron hinges. The king, wearing a leather apron over his rich garments, hunched over a table laden with mysterious instruments and vessels. Fumes filled the air. Henry breathed in the acrid stench. A strange feeling prickled Henry's skin. He believed that his father was actually capable of performing magic.
The king frequently called Henry to this secret laboratory to lecture him on his latest experiments.
Henry dreaded these lectures. The king had become more capricious; his irascibility increased, and his temper was often uncontrolled. He shouted at his servants, his gentlemen, his councillors, and especially his son. The older Henry got, the more he sensed his father's growing dislike of him. But why did the king dislike him? Henry did not know, but he suspected it was because his father wished that Arthur, the favorite, had lived, instead of Henry.
Henry watched silently as his father poured a murky liquid from one vessel into another.
For years King Henry had been searching for the secret of transmuting base metals into silver and gold. He was already wealthier than nearly all the rest of the English nobility put together. He owned many sumptuous palaces, old castles, manor houses, and hunting lodges, all of them repositories of his accumulated wealth—gold and silver plate, rich tapestries from the Netherlands, priceless ornaments from Italy, ironbound chests filled with gold. Buckingham often said that once a gold piece entered the royal coffers, it never came out again.
But even more important to King Henry than gold was the search for the elixir of youth—not to prolong his life forever, he had once explained to his son, but to become like a young man again. It was true that he looked like an old man: His once blond hair was now thin and gray, his body bent, his skin sallow, his teeth mostly blackened or missing. He believed he was on the verge of discovering the potion that would reverse all of this, and the belief kept him in his laboratory hour upon hour.
Absorbed in his experiments, the king seemed to forget Henry. Time ticked by; Henry grew restless. Could he slip away unnoticed?
He would wait awhile longer. His father muttered to himself. An hour crawled by. Henry had challenged Brandon to wrestle this afternoon. He hoped Brandon would still be there. For some time now Brandon had become much taken up with the ladies of the court, and recently one of them had borne him a daughter. "So you are to be wed then?" Henry had asked when he heard the news. For a moment he thought of Princess Catherine with the shining auburn hair. But Brandon had shrugged off the question, remarking, "There are so many women to love!" He had winked at Henry and grinned knowingly. "As you shall soon discover, my lord."
Henry took a few quiet steps toward the door and pressed it until it opened slightly. As he pressed harder, the door creaked.
Alert as a deer, the king spun away from his array of instruments, glaring at the interruption. Henry froze, but it was too late. His father's wrath exploded.
"You have not been dismissed!" the king howled, seizing one of the glass vessels and hurling it at Henry, who tried not to flinch. The vessel missed Henry's head by a handspan and smashed against the stone wall. Maddened, the king hurled another vessel, and another while Henry, teeth clenched, disciplined himself to remain motionless. The inkhorn was the last to fly; ink trickled down the wall like blood.
"You may go," said the king, suddenly calm, apparently forgetting why he had summoned Henry in the first place, and Henry rushed away from the gloomy chamber.
When he found Brandon at last and they had stripped to their smallclothes, Henry rushed his opponent and threw him to the ground. Brandon fought back. He was six years older than the prince and had always defeated him easily. But Henry did not back down. Sweating and panting, the two struggled until Henry succeeded in pinning him. Henry stood over Brandon, grinning in triumph.
"The tide has turned," he said.
ONCE DOÑA ELVIRA HAD DEPARTED, I EXULTED IN AN unfamiliar sense of freedom. But I realized that to protect my reput
ation, I needed the presence in my household of an older, married lady. I thought of Lady Margaret Pole, who had become my friend at Ludlow and with whom I had since exchanged occasional letters. Unfortunately, her husband, Sir Richard, had recently died, and Lady Margaret herself was unwell. In any case, the decision was not mine but the king's. To spare himself the expense of a duenna, King Henry decided that I and my diminished court should take up residence at Richmond Palace as part of the royal household, where I would not require a governess.
At first I was pleased by this change, thinking it would give me opportunities to be with members of the English court and to see Prince Henry. I had only Puebla's word that the betrothal had been secretly renounced. Though he had been right about Doña Elvira, I still did not entirely trust the ambassador. If the betrothal had been broken, why had the king not told me? And if Henry and I were still betrothed, then why were marriage plans not going forward? I both hoped and dreaded that I might learn the answers if I lived under the king's roof.
Once ensconced at Richmond, though, I found that my freedom was more sharply curtailed than ever. I felt that members of the English court were watching me, whispering about me, speculating on my future. I was an outsider, a foreigner living in their midst, largely unwelcome. And I still spoke little English, barely enough to make my wishes known to the servants.
During those long, dreary days I thought often of my family. There were no letters from my father, and no money. My plan to meet with my sister, Juana, had come to nothing.
Then, seemingly by an act of God, my sister was brought to me, swept in by a great storm at sea.
In January of 1506, Juana's husband, Archduke Philip, made the foolhardy decision to sail from the Netherlands to Spain during a time of year known for its dangerous storms. Soon after their ships passed Calais, a violent gale battered them, scattering damaged vessels and terrified passengers along the southern coast of England.
Fortunately, my sister and brother-in-law and most of the others were rescued and brought ashore at Weymouth. When the news first reached me of the shipwreck and their narrow escape, the archduke was already being conducted to Windsor Castle, where King Henry planned to welcome them with great pomp and ceremony. I was invited to join them there.
Eager to spend time with my sister and to find out, if I could, what she might know of her husband's plans to seize power from our father, I made my way to Windsor, accompanied by my ladies and gentlemen. There I learned that Juana had been left behind in Weymouth, "to recover from the frights of the voyage." Juana would join Philip when she felt well again.
Though I was disappointed that my sister was not present, I took part in the revelry, the tournaments and banquets, and the pageantry, determined to enjoy myself. I unpacked the gown I had ordered for Prince Henry's birthday celebration the summer before, and I dined and danced with my ladies in the Great Hall. Prince Henry was present, tall and very well made and increasingly handsome, his red-gold hair cut and combed straight in the French fashion. He thrilled the assembled company with his prowess in jousting and dancing. On two or three occasions when we were in sight of one another, I swept the prince a deep curtsy, and he bowed and smiled. But we did not exchange any words.
Despite my pleasure I also felt uneasy. King Henry and Archduke Philip disappeared together for long periods. Each time I saw them deep in conversation, my suspicions were aroused. What were they discussing in these private talks? Were they plotting the overthrow of my father while I danced?
On the day I was to return to Richmond with Princess Mary, my sister arrived at Windsor just as Philip announced that the ships were ready and they must prepare to sail while the weather held. In the end, Juana and I had only two hours together, long enough for me to realize that this was not the sister I remembered. In place of the high-spirited and beautiful girl who had once laughed easily and loved to dance, I found a wan, silent woman, her lovely brown eyes brooding and fearful.
When I tried to embrace her, she shrank away from me. She strode about the chamber, wringing her hands, collapsing onto cushions, weeping, then struggling to her feet again to resume her pacing. I tried to distract her, but she would speak of nothing but her husband, Philip.
"I love him more than life itself, Catalina," she murmured. "But he loves me little. He has other women. He has not been faithful to his vows." Her voice rising, she began to rant about those who took her beloved Philip away from her—not only his numerous mistresses, but also his gentlemen with whom he liked to drink and hunt and disport himself. She was jealous of them all, even his hunting dogs—jealous to the point of madness.
"I am certain that Philip loves you, Juana," I said soothingly, though I was anything but certain.
Had we two sisters been able to spend more time together, perhaps we might have eventually found ourselves at ease with one another. I might have ventured to discuss my worries about our father and my own plight. Under the circumstances, I said nothing.
Our brief visit at an end, I kissed my sister, promising that we would surely meet again. I was disconsolate when she and her faithless husband left to sail away from the English port, for I feared that the archduke and the discontented Castilian noblemen would succeed in wresting control of the kingdom from my father, and I knew no way to prevent it.
The twenty-ninth of June, 1506, the day after Prince Henry's fifteenth birthday, by all rights should have been my wedding day, according to the terms of the marriage contract. Yet I had no idea when—or if!—the wedding would ever take place.
I did not even see Prince Henry on his birthday. In fact, I saw him rarely, though we lived in the same palace. My Spanish suite had been assigned to the poorest apartments, overlooking the courtyard where beggars congregated for handouts. That day I stood at my narrow window, gazing down at them in their rags and filth, women carrying hungry, wailing children on their bony hips, men kicking the starving dogs away from the meager portions thrown to the beggars from the royal kitchens. I felt like one of those ill-fed beggars, waiting for the king to toss me a crust. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the palace, Prince Henry's family and friends and the highest ranks of the nobility were celebrating the royal birthday.
I turned away from the window and looked to my ladies, observing their listless eyes and downcast expressions. They gazed at me impassively, awaiting my orders.
"Come with me," I told them, suddenly roused to anger. I picked up my skirts and hurried down the long gallery to the chamber of my household treasurer, Francesca, Inez, and Maria at my heels. Juan de Cuero looked up from his account books, startled to see us. It had been his custom to bring these records to my chamber each fortnight to show me the latest figures. Each time, my debts had increased.
"Don Juan," I said, "I am today ordering you to sell sufficient of my plate to give ten gold crowns to each member of my suite, to be spent as they wish."
The treasurer looked at me with eyes as wide and astonished as though I had ordered him to cut off his hand. "But, my lady princess, you know that I, as keeper of the plate, cannot—"
I slammed my fist on the account book. "Look at us, Don Juan! My ladies and I stand before you in rags and tatters, no better than the beggars in the courtyard! I order you to do so, do you understand, sir?"
He licked his lips and whispered, "It is a part of your dowry, madam."
"What good is my dowry to me? Tomorrow should be my wedding day. Perhaps the marriage contract no longer exists! In the meantime, we must eat, we must clothe ourselves, we must somehow continue to live! Now do as I have told you, good sir, with no further argument."
Cuero bowed his head. "As you wish, madam."
Piece by piece in the months that followed, one flagon, one ewer, one charger at a time, my dowry passed into the hands of the goldsmiths of London, who took advantage of my plight and offered only the most meager of returns for them.
Months passed with no change in my situation. Ambassador Puebla counseled patience once too often, until I lost not only
my patience but my temper. "Don Rodrigo, do me a kindness: Do not return unless it is to bring me real news, and not merely idle gossip." I regretted my harsh words after I had dismissed him, but I did not call him back, and for some weeks he did not return.
Then, on a day in late November of 1506 when I had been brooding on the fact that I had now been in England for five years, Ambassador Puebla burst into my chambers. "I have news from Spain, and it is scarcely to be believed!" he exclaimed. "Archduke Philip is dead!"
Six months earlier, Philip and Juana had arrived in Spain. In October he fell ill, and in a matter of days he was dead.
"There is more," continued Don Rodrigo. "Queen Juana was profoundly shocked by the suddenness of the archdukes death. She grieved so deeply that she slept upon her knees by her husband's coffin and would not allow the corpse to be buried. She persuaded her loyal servants to seize the coffin from the monastery where it was being kept and to transport corpse and coffin all the way to Granada. The queen has said that at last she has her husband all to herself and will never again be parted from him."
She is mad, I thought. My sister has truly gone mad.
"But what of King Ferdinand?" I asked Puebla. "Cannot our father reason with her?"
"The king has her confined at the castle at Tordesillas," Puebla said. "He intends to rule Castilla in her stead."
I closed my eyes and murmured a brief prayer of thanks: Castilla and Aragon were still united, and my father held power. For that I was grateful, but naturally I added a prayer for the comfort of my poor, unfortunate sister.
The ambassador presented one more piece of news for which I was utterly unprepared: My father had married the niece of King Louis XII of France.
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