Katharine, the Virgin Widow

by Виктория Холт

  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 after 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 futu
re 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.

  Let her travel by night. Let her carry the coffin of her husband about with her; let her fondle the corpse when she liked. All this would enable the people to understand that the Queen was in truth a madwoman.

  So Ferdinand travelled by day, and Juana by night; and when Juana realized that they were taking the route to Burgos, that town full of the most poignant memories—for it was there that Philip had died—she refused to travel further.

  She stopped at Arcos and took up her residence there. In vain did her servants protest that she had chosen the most unhealthy spot in Spain. She retorted that she did not care for the weather. The cold meant nothing to her; she no longer felt anything but sorrow.

  Ferdinand made no protest. He could wait.

  She was making it easy for him to convince the people that their Queen was mad, and then he would cease to fear anything she might do. With great vigor he set about putting his affairs in order.

  He read the dispatches from Puebla. Puebla was growing old; he would send a new ambassador to England; he must try once more to bring about the marriage of his youngest daughter with the Prince of Wales.

  Fuensalida at the King’s Court

  IT WAS A BLEAK FEBRUARY DAY AND A CHILLY MIST ENVELOPED the countryside. The elegant foreigner clearly found the weather distasteful, and his retinue, being fully aware of his choleric temper and his habit of speaking his mind, whispered together that it was to be hoped the weather improved before they reached London.

  The journey from the coast had taken them several days and they had come to rest for the night in an inn still some miles from the capital. Their coming had aroused a certain flutter of excitement within the hostelry, for it was known that the party must be on their way to the King’s Court, and there was speculation even among the scullions as to whether this meant a marriage for the Prince of Wales with his brother’s widow, and perhaps a bride for the King.

  This was not the first party of Spaniards they had seen; but the nobleman who was clearly the most important member of the party was certainly a very touchy gentleman. He complained of this and that, and although he was too haughty to speak to them they were fully aware of his fastidiousness.

  Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was however in far from an ill mood. The weather might be distasteful and he hated the discomforts of travel, but he was quite certain that he was going to complete a mission, over which that fool Puebla had been stumbling for so many years, and complete it to such satisfaction to his master that great honors would be showered upon him.

  The futility, he said to himself, of allowing such a man as Puebla to handle these delicate matters! A Jew of no standing! Diplomacy should be conducted only by members of the nobility.

  Don Gutierre was complacent. He himself belonged to a family which could trace its glorious ancestry back through the centuries; he was wealthy; he was not in the diplomatic service of his country for financial gain but for honors. He had recently come from the Court of Philip the Handsome, and previously he had represented Ferdinand at that of Maximilian. He was fully aware of the intrigues of traitors such as Juan Manuel and he had never swerved from the cause of Ferdinand. Now that Philip was dead and Juana recognized almost universally as mad, Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was coming into his own; his would be the rewards of fidelity and, when he had satisfactorily arranged the marriage between Ferdinand’s daughter and the Prince of Wales, Ferdinand would indeed be grateful to him.

  While he mused thus a visitor arrived at the hostelry; he came riding in with a few servants and asked immediately of one of Gutierre’s servants if he might be taken to his master.

  “I have ridden from London,” he said, “for the sole purpose of greeting Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida and that I might have the pleasure of returning with him to the capital.”

  Gutierre, delighted when he heard that a gentleman of distinction had called to see him, although it was no more than courtesy demanded and it was certainly what he expected, ordered that the visitor should be brought to him immediately.

  “I am Dr. Nicholas West, Bishop of Ely,” Gutierre was told. “I heard that you had arrived and have come to usher you into Court circles, on the expr
ess command of His Highness the King.”

  “It gives me great pleasure to meet you,” answered Gutierre.

  The innkeeper, a little flustered by such distinguished guests, provided a private room in which refreshment was served to the two gentlemen.

  And when they had talked of the perils of sea journeys and the weather in England, they reached the real purpose of the meeting.

  “The King has not enjoyed such good health during this winter as he has hitherto,” explained Dr. West. “Indeed, his physicians are in constant attendance.”

  “What ails His Grace?”

  “He has been plagued by pains in his body for some years, and his limbs have become so stiff that it is often painful for him to put foot to the ground. These pains are always more severe during the winter months. But this winter he has suffered more than usual. He has had rheums and coughs which have kept him to his bed for many weeks. His physicians do not allow him to spend long at a time with his ministers, and there are days when they implore him not to see them at all.”

  “I understand,” said Gutierre. “This will mean that there may be some delay in his receiving me?”

  “It may well be so.”

  “Then I must perforce wait until he commands me to his presence. In the meantime I will call on the Infanta. I doubt not she will be eager to have news of her father.”

  “That is something of which I must warn you. It is the etiquette of the Court that ambassadors should not visit anyone belonging to the royal household until they have been received by the King.”

  “Is that so? That is going to make my position somewhat difficult…unless I have an early interview with the King.”

  “You may rest assured that as soon as His Grace’s health has improved he will receive you. He is eager to have news of his friend and brother, King Ferdinand.”

  “He cannot be more eager for these negotiations than my master is.”

  “Had you any plans as to where you would lodge?”