Katharine, the Virgin Widow

by Виктория Холт

“I would not submit you to the hazards of rapid travel. You shall come slowly and with dignity.”

  “Why, why?” she screamed. “I have faced the dangers of the sea with you. What hazards would there be on the road? You shall not be rid of me. I know full well why you seek to escape me. There is that woman…”

  “Be silent,” he said sharply. “You weary me with your eternal jealousies.”

  “Then remove the cause of my jealousy.”

  “I should die of boredom, which I believe would be more tiresome than death by drowning.”

  “You are so cruel,” she complained pathetically.

  “You will do as I say,” he told her.

  “Why should I? Am I not the Queen? But for me, Castile would never be for you.”

  “So you boast once more of the titles you have brought me. Have I not paid dearly for them? Do I not have to endure you also?”

  “Philip, I shall come with you.”

  “You will do as I say. Do you want me to have you put away again?”

  “You cannot do it.”

  “Can I not? I did it before. Why should I not do it again? All know that you are mad. You make no secret of the fact. You shall say a wifely farewell to me and I will go on ahead of you. You will be calm and follow me. You will travel the same road, but some days after me. Is that such hardship?”

  “It is always hardship not to be with you.”

  He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched hard.

  He said: “If you do as I say, I will promise to be a loving husband to you this night.”

  “Philip…” She could not quench the longing in her voice.

  “Only if,” he went on, “you promise to say a nice, pleasant, calm farewell to me on the morrow.”

  “It is bribery,” she said. “It is not the first time. You give me as a concession that which is mine by right, and always you demand a price for it.”

  He laughed at her. He was so sure of his power over her. He would spend his last night at Melcombe Regis with her, and in the morning he would leave her behind while he rode on to Windsor to meet the King of England.

  * * *

  WINDSOR LOOKED PLEASANT to Katharine that winter’s day. She was pleased now that she had left Durham House and was at Court. It would be wonderful to see Juana again, to whisper confidences, to recall the old days and perhaps to explain the difficulties of her position here in England.

  With her maids of honor ranged about her she was at the window, waiting for the first signs of the cavalcade.

  “I wonder if I shall recognize her,” murmured Katharine. “She will have changed since I saw her, doubtless.”

  “It is long since she went to Flanders,” Maria de Salinas reminded her.

  Katharine thought of that day, nearly ten years ago, when Juana had set out for Flanders. She remembered the sadness of her mother who had accompanied Juana to Laredo, and how Isabella had returned to find that her own mother—so like Juana in her wildness—was dying in the Castle of Arevalo.

  It was all so long ago. What resemblance would Juana, Queen of Castile, bear to that high-spirited, wayward girl who had gone into Flanders to marry Philip the Handsome?

  She looked at her maids of honor, but their expressions were blank and she knew that they were thinking of the wild stories they had heard of her sister—how she had bound one of her husband’s mistresses and cut off her long golden hair, how she had thought herself to be a prisoner at Medina del Campo and had escaped from her apartments and refused to return, spending the bitterly cold night out of doors in her night attire. Uneasy rumors of Juana’s conduct continued to come from Flanders.

  When I see her, thought Katharine, she will talk to me of her life; I shall be able to comfort her as she will comfort me.

  So there she waited, and when the fanfares of trumpets heralded the arrival of the cavalcade, and the King and the Prince of Wales went down to the courtyard to receive the guests, Katharine saw the fair and handsome Philip, but she looked in vain for her sister.

  She stood at her window watching the greetings between the royal parties. Surely Juana must be there. She was in England with Philip. Why was she not with him now?

  Soon she herself would be expected to descend and greet the guests of the King; but she must wait until summoned; she must remember that there were many at the Court of greater importance than she was.

  She gazed at her brother-in-law. He was indeed a handsome man. How haughty he looked, determined to stand as the equal of the King of England; and as he greeted him, by very comparison Henry VII of England seemed more aged and infirm than usual.

  But there was the Prince of Wales—already taller than Philip himself—the golden Prince, even more arrogant than Philip, even more certain of his right to the center of the stage.

  Katharine could never look upon the Prince of Wales unmoved, and even at such a time as this she temporarily forgot Juana, because she must wonder whether or not that disturbing boy would eventually be her husband.

  She heard her maids of honor whispering together.

  “But how strange this is! What can have happened to the Queen of Castile?”

  * * *

  THOSE WERE UNEASY DAYS at Windsor for Philip’s followers—not so for Philip; he was determined to enjoy the lavish hospitality. It was a pleasure to show his skill at hunting and hawking in the forests of Windsor; he liked to ride through the straggling street which was the town of Windsor, and to see the women at their windows, or pausing in the street, as he passed, all with those looks and smiles which he was accustomed to receive from women everywhere. He liked to sit in the great dining hall on the King’s right hand and sample the various English dishes, to listen to the minstrels, to watch the baiting of bears, horses and mastiffs.

  He did not know that the King of England only entertained on such a lavish scale when he hoped to profit from doing so.

  Glorious days these were, and Philip was in no hurry to leave for Spain. He had met his sister-in-law, poor little Katharine, who seemed to be somewhat ill-used by this wily old Tudor. The girl was dull, he thought; too melancholy, lacking in the gaiety which he liked to find in women. She was shabby compared with the other Court ladies; he had little interest in her.

  On the rare occasions when they met she persistently questioned him about Juana. Why was Juana not with him? Why did they not travel together?

  “Ah,” he had replied, “I came with all speed on the King’s express desire. I did not wish to subject Juana to such a tiring journey.”

  “Would she not have preferred to travel with you?”

  “I have to be firm with her. I have to consider her health.”

  Katharine did not trust him, and more than ever she longed to see her sister.

  Meanwhile the King was making headway with Philip.

  There was, sheltering in Burgundy under the protection of Maximilian, a cousin of that Earl of Warwick whom Henry had executed because of his claim to the throne; this cousin was Edmund de la Pole who called himself Duke of Suffolk; and, while such a man lived, Henry could not feel entirely secure. His great aim was to eliminate all those who laid claim to the throne and, with Edmund de la Pole skulking on the Continent, he could never be sure when the man might land in England and seek to take the Crown from him. He remembered his own days of exile and how he had lain in wait for the opportune moment to rise and snatch the throne for himself.

  He was subtle in his dealing with Philip, and Philip had not learned subtlety. It was gratifying to the King of England that he had such an arrogant young man to deal with, for this made the way so much easier than if it had been necessary to bargain with Philip’s wiser ministers.

  He knew what Philip wanted from him: help against Ferdinand. Well, reasoned the King of England, that sly old fox Ferdinand was ever an enemy of mine.

  Henry was finding Philip’s visit stimulating, and he was enjoying it as much as his rheumatism would allow him to enjoy anything.

  Henry was eager
that there should be a commercial treaty with Flanders and this he obtained—making sure that it should be very advantageous to England.

  It was not so easy to bring about the expulsion of Edmund de la Pole, but slyly and subtly Henry reminded Philip that he was held a prisoner in England—by the weather. But Philip knew that there was a veiled threat in the words; and even he did not see how they could leave England if Henry did not wish them to do so.

  So de la Pole was thrown to the King, and Henry blessed that storm which had cast this incautious young man upon his shores.

  “This is indeed a happy day,” he cried. “See, we have come to two agreements already. We have a commercial treaty between our two countries, and you have agreed to give me the traitor, de la Pole. It was a happy day when you came to visit us.”

  Happy for England, thought Juan Manuel; and he was already wondering how soon the fleet of ships, which were now assembling at Weymouth, could be ready to put to sea. He hoped it would be before the rash Philip had made more concessions to his wily host.

  “Let us make even happier arrangements,” went on the King of England. “It is the maxim of your House that it is better to wed than to war. If you will give me your sister Margaret I shall be a happy man.”

  “There is none to whom I would rather give her,” answered Philip.

  “And the Emperor?”

  “My father and I are of one mind in this matter.”

  “A speedy marriage would please me greatly.”

  “A speedy marriage there shall be,” answered Philip. He did not mention that his sister had loudly protested against a match with the old King of England and that, since she had been twice married and twice widowed and was now Duchess of Savoy, she could not be forced against her will into a marriage which was unattractive to her.

  But Philip would say nothing of this. How could he, to a man who might be his host but was also to some extent his jailer?

  To discuss the marriage of the King’s daughter Mary to Charles was a pleasant enough occupation. That marriage, if it ever took place, would occur far in the future when Philip would be miles away from England. The Prince of Wales’ marriage to Philip’s daughter Eleanor would not, if it ever came about, be so far distant. It was very pleasant to discuss it, although Henry was on dangerous ground, thought Philip, when he talked of marrying to Juana’s daughter a son who had already been promised to her sister.

  Well, Juana had no say in these matters.

  * * *

  KATHARINE IN HER apartments in the Castle was being prepared by her ladies for the entertainment in the great hall.

  They were sighing, all of them, because they had no new gowns, and even the one Katharine must wear had been mended.

  “How shall we look?” wailed Francesca. “The Archduke will be ashamed of us.”

  “Perhaps he will be sorry for us,” put in Maria de Salinas.

  “I do not think he would ever be sorry for anyone,” Maria de Rojas countered.

  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!<
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  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.”