by Jean Plaidy
Katharine heard her own voice speaking; she whispered: “Not…my mother!”
There was no answer, so she knew it was so. This was indeed the greatest calamity.
“She is sick? She is ill? She has been sick for so long. If she had not been sick… life would have been different here. She would never have allowed…”
She was talking… talking to hold off the news she feared to hear.
Doña Elvira had recovered herself. She said: “Highness, come to your apartment. I will look after you there.”
“My mother …” said Katharine. “She is…”
“God rest her soul!” murmured Elvira. “She was a saint. There will be rejoicing in Heaven.”
“It is so then?” said Katharine piteously. She was like a child pleading: Tell me it is not so. Tell me that she is ill … that she will recover. What can I do if she is not there? She has always been there…even though we were parted. How can I live with the knowledge that she is gone… that she is dead?
“She has passed peacefully to her rest,” said Doña Elvira. “Her care for you was evident right at the end. The last thing she did was to have the Bull of Dispensation brought to her. She knew before she died that an affinity with Arthur could not stand in the way of your marriage with Henry. She satisfied herself that your future was assured and then… she made her will and lay down to die.”
Katharine turned away, but Elvira was beside her.
“Leave me,” said Katharine. “I wish to be alone.”
Elvira did not insist and Katharine went to her room. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains so that she felt shut in with her grief.
“She has gone,” she said to herself. “I have lost the dearest friend I ever had. No one will ever take her place. Oh God, how can I endure to stay in a world where she is not?”
Then she seemed to hear that voice reproving her—stern yet kind, so serene, so understanding always. “When your time comes, my daughter, you will be taken to your rest. Until that time you must bear the tribulations which God sees fit to lay upon you. Bear them nobly, Catalina, my dear one, because that is what I would have you do.”
“I will do all that you wish me to,” said Katharine.
Then she closed her eyes and began to pray, pray for courage to bear whatever life had to offer her, courage to live in a world which no longer contained Isabella of Castile.
Maria de Rojas
THE KING OF ENGLAND WAS FURIOUS.
His envoy had returned from Naples with reports that the Queen of Naples was plump and comely; she had remarkably beautiful eyes and her breath was sweet.
Henry cared nothing for this, since he had discovered that the Queen of Naples had no claim whatsoever on the crown of Naples and was nothing more than a pensioner of Ferdinand.
He had been deceived. The Sovereigns had tried to trick him into marriage. Much valuable time had been lost and he was no nearer to getting himself sons than he had been at the time of his wife's death.
One could not trust Ferdinand. There was not a more crafty statesman in the whole of Europe.
Moreover what was Ferdinand's position since the death of Isabella? All knew that the senior in the partnership had been the Queen of Castile. What was Aragon compared with Castile? And although the marriage of the Sovereigns had united Spain the Castilians were not prepared to accept Ferdinand as their King now that Isabella was dead.
Isabella's daughter Juana had been declared heiress of Castile, which meant that her husband Philip was the King. He was in a similar position to that which Ferdinand had occupied with Isabella. And Ferdinand? He was merely relegated to be King of Aragon…a very different rank from King of Spain.
Ferdinand was sly; he was unreliable. He would feel little anxiety concerning his daughter in England. All that had come from Isabella.
There was another matter which had upset the King of England. He had made a treaty with the Spanish Sovereigns to the effect that English sailors should have the freedom of Spanish ports and that they should be able to do business there on the same terms as Spaniards. He had just received news from certain merchants and sailors that this agreement had not been respected, and that they who had gone to Seville in good faith had found the old restrictions of trading brought against them, so that, unprepared as they were, they had suffered great losses.
“So this,” Henry had said, “is the way Ferdinand of Aragon keeps his promises.”
He sent for Puebla, and demanded an explanation.
Puebla had none. He was bewildered. He would write with all speed to Ferdinand, he had said, and there should be just restitution for the Englishmen.
This he had done, but Ferdinand was in no position to refund what had been lost. His authority in Castile was wavering and he was deeply concerned about the accession of his daughter Juana, for he feared the duplicity of her husband.
“And here am I,” raged the King, “giving an allowance to Ferdinand's daughter. It shall be immediately stopped.”
His eyes were speculative. Was the daughter of the King of Aragon such a prize? Was she worthy to mate with one of the most desirable partis in Europe?
Maximilian might be unreliable, but then so was Ferdinand; and as events were turning out it seemed that very soon the Hapsburgs would be the most influential family in Europe. Young Charles, the son of Juana and Philip, would be heir not only to Isabella and Ferdinand but to his paternal grandfather's dominions. Surely the greatest catch in Europe was little Charles.
His aunt Margaret, Maximilian's daughter, had married the heir of Ferdinand and Isabella—Juan, who had died a few months after the marriage, and had again become a widow on the decease of the Duke of Savoy.
Henry began to consider an alliance with the Hapsburgs. Margaret for himself; she was both comely and rich. Young Charles for his daughter Mary; and Eleanor, daughter of Juana and Philip, for Henry Prince of Wales. His betrothal to Katharine of Aragon? What of that? Isabella of Castile was dead, and what did he care for Ferdinand, now merely King of Aragon, who was almost certain to find trouble with his son-in-law Philip and his daughter Juana when they came to claim the crown of Castile!
Henry had made up his mind. He sent for a certain Dr. Savage, a man in whose ability he believed.
He said to him: “I want you to prepare to leave for the Court of Brussels. Don Pedro de Ayala is the Spanish ambassador at that Court and I believe him to be well disposed towards me, for we became friends during his term in England. I wish you to make it known to the Archduke Philip that I seek his friendship. As for his Archduchess, now Queen Juana of Castile, you need only to win her husband's friendship to make sure of hers. Ayala will help you, I am sure.”
Henry then began to lay before Dr. Savage his plans for an alliance between his family and the Hapsburgs.
“Proceed,” he said, “with all speed, for although my son and daughter can wait for their partners, there is not a great deal of time left to me. Do your work well and I doubt not that before long the Duchess Margaret will be on her way to England.”
Dr. Savage declared his desire to serve his King in all ways.
He would prepare to leave for Brussels at once.
HOW DIFFERENT had life at Durham House become!
Katharine's presence was no longer required at Court; there was no money coming in; poverty and boredom had returned.
The maids of honor grumbled together and despaired of ever returning to Spain. They used their jewelled brooches to pin their torn gowns together; their food consisted of stale fish and what little could be bought at the lowest prices in the street markets. It was small consolation that such food was served on plates of gold and silver.
Katharine rarely saw the Prince to whom she was supposed to be affianced; she heard gossip that he was going to marry her little niece, Eleanor. Life was even worse than it had been in previous times of neglect, because then she could always write to her mother.
In desperation she wrote to Ferdinand. “I pray you remember that
I am your daughter. For the love of our Lord help me in my need. I have no money to buy chemises of which I am in great need. I have had to sell some of my jewels to buy myself a gown. I have had but two dresses since I left Spain, for I have been wearing those which I brought with me. But I have very few left and I do not know what will become of me and my servants unless someone helps me.”
Ferdinand ignored such pleas. He had too many troubles of his own to think about his daughter's chemises.
So the weeks passed.
Dr. Savage made little progress in Brussels; this was largely because of circumstances which were unknown to Henry. Since Isabella's death there had arisen certain factions which were determined to oust Ferdinand from Castile; and at the Court of Brussels there were two rival factions from Spain, one working for Ferdinand, one for Philip, his son-in-law. The head of Philip's faction was Juan Manuel, brother of Doña Elvira, who had worked for the Sovereigns when Isabella was alive because of his admiration for the Queen. He had never admired Ferdinand; and now that the Queen was dead he was determined to force him out of Castile by supporting his son-in-law, Philip. Ferdinand's supporters were his ambassador to Brussels, Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida, and Don Pedro de Ayala. Ayala, to whom Dr. Savage presented himself, was certainly not going to bring Philip and the doctor together, because an alliance between Philip and England would be to Ferdinand's detriment.
Thus, although Ayala received Dr. Savage with a show of friendship, he was secretly working all the time to avoid bringing the doctor to Philip's notice. Negotiations hung fire, and this was very irritating to the English King, who knew little of the intricacies of politics at the Brussels Court.
The delays did not endear his daughter-in-law to him, and as his rheumatism was growing gradually more painful he became more irascible than ever and quite indifferent to the hardship which Katharine was suffering.
Katharine began to pawn more and more of her jewels, and she knew that when the time came for them to be valued and handed over to the King, as part of her dowry, they would be very much depleted. But what could she do? Her household had to eat even if they had received no payment for many months.
The entire household was becoming fretful, and one day Katharine came upon Maria de Rojas sobbing in distress, so deep that it was some time before Katharine could understand what had happened.
At length the sad little story was wrung from Maria.
“I have had news that he has married someone else.”
“My poor Maria!” Katharine sought to comfort the forlorn maid of honor. “But since he could not remain faithful, surely he would have made a bad husband.”
“It was all the waiting,” cried Maria. “His family insisted. They believed we should never have the consent of the Sovereigns and that there would be no dowry. Why, only half of your own was paid, and consider the poverty in which your father allows you to live!”
Katharine sighed.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder what will become of us all.”
Maria continued to weep.
IT WAS A FEW days later when Doña Elvira called Maria de Rojas to her.
Maria, who had been listless since she had heard the news of her lover's marriage, was not apprehensive as she would ordinarily have been by a summons from Doña Elvira. She simply did not care. Whatever Doña Elvira did to her, she said to Maria de Salinas, whatever punishment she sought to inflict, she would not care. Nothing could hurt her now.
With Doña Elvira was her son, Iñigo, who looked sheepishly at Maria as she entered.
Maria ignored him.
“Ah, Maria,” said Doña Elvira smiling, “I have some good news for you.”
Maria lifted her leaden eyes to Elvira's face, but she did not ask what the good news was.
“You poor girl!” went on Elvira. “If the Prince of Wales had not died, good matches would have been found for all of you. You must have suffered great anxiety as to your future.”
Maria was still silent.
“You however are going to be very fortunate. My son here wishes to marry you. His father and I are agreeable to this match. I see no reason to delay.”
Maria spoke then, recklessly, for the first time in her life not caring what Doña Elvira could do to her: “I do not wish to marry your son, Doña Elvira,” she said.
“What!” screeched the duenna. “Do you realize what you are saying?”
“I am perfectly aware of what I am saying. I mean it. I wished to marry but was prevented from doing so. Now I do not wish to marry.”
“You wished to marry!” cried Elvira. “You persuaded the Infanta to plead with the Sovereigns for their consent and a dowry. And what happened, eh? Did you get that consent? I have seen no dowry.”
Elvira was smiling so malevolently that Maria suddenly understood. Did not Elvira see all the letters which were dispatched to the Sovereigns? Katharine must have realized this, because that last letter she wrote—and she must have written it at the very time when Isabella lay dying—was to have been delivered by a secret messenger, which meant, of course, that it should not pass through Elvira's hands.
Maria knew then that this woman had wrecked her hopes of happiness; she hated her, and made no attempt to control her emotion.
“So it was you,” she cried. “You have done this. They would have given what I asked. I should have married by now, but you…you…”
“I fear,” said Doña Elvira quietly, “that this cannot be Maria de Rojas, maid of honor to the Infanta. It must be some gipsy hoyden who looks like her.”
Iñigo was looking at Maria with big pleading eyes; his look was tender and he was imploring her: Maria be calm. Have you forgotten that this is my mother, whom everyone has to obey?
Maria gave him a scornful look and cried out in anguish: “How could you do this, you wicked woman? I hate you. I tell you I hate you and will never marry your stupid son.”
Doña Elvira, genuinely shocked, gripped Maria by the shoulders and forced her on to her knees. She took her long dark hair and, pulling it, jerked the girl's head backwards.
“You insolent little fool,” she hissed. “I will show you what happens to those who defy me.” She turned to Iñigo. “Do not stand there staring. Go and get help. Call my servant. Tell them to come here at once.”
She shook Maria, whose sobs were now choking her and, when her servants came, Doña Elvira cried: “Take this girl into the anteroom. Lock the door on her. I will decide what is to be done with her.”
They carried the sobbing Maria away, and Elvira, her mouth firm, her eyes glittering, said to her son: “Have no fear. The girl shall be your wife. I know how to make her obedient.”
Iñigo was shaken. It had hurt him to see Maria so ill treated. He was certain that she would be his wife, because his mother had said she would, and whatever Doña Elvira decreed came to pass.
KATHARINE WAS deeply disturbed by what had happened to Maria de Rojas. Doña Elvira had kept her locked away from the other maids of honor, and they all knew that Doña Elvira was determined that Maria should be forced to accept Iñigo as her betrothed.
Katharine considered this matter and asked herself why she allowed her household to be dominated by Doña Elvira. Was she herself not its head?
She remembered her parting from her mother. She could almost hear that firm voice warning her: “Obey Doña Elvira in all things, my dearest. She is a strong woman and a wise one. Sometime she may seem harsh, but all that she does will be for your good. Always remember that I trust her and I chose her to be your duenna.”
Because of that Katharine had always sought to obey Doña Elvira, and whenever she had felt tempted to do otherwise she remembered her mother's words. But what duplicity Elvira had used in not allowing Katharine's requests on Maria's behalf to reach Isabella!
Katharine asked Elvira to come to her apartment and, as soon as the duenna entered, saw that her mouth was set and determined and that she was going to do fierce battle in this matter of Maria's marr
iage.
“You have removed my maid of honor from my service,” Katharine began.
“Because, Highness, she has behaved in a most undignified manner, a manner of which your dear mother would heartily disapprove.”
That was true. If Maria had sobbed and wept and declared her hatred of Elvira, as Katharine had heard she had, Isabella would certainly have disapproved.
“Doña Elvira, I wrote some letters to my mother and I believe she never received them.”
“Storms at sea,” murmured Elvira. “It invariably happens that some letters do not reach their destination. If I wish to send important news I send two couriers, and not together. Did you take this precaution?”
Katharine looked boldly into the face of her duenna. “I believe these letters never left this house.”
“That is an accusation, Highness.”
“I meant it to be.”
“Your mother put me in charge of your household, Highness. I never forget that. If I believe that I should sometimes act boldly on any matter, I do so.”
“Even to destroying letters which were meant for my mother?”
“Even to that, Highness.”
“So you were determined that Maria should marry Iñigo, and not the man of her choice.”
“Indeed that is so, Highness. She wished to marry an Englishman. There are many matters which are hidden from Your Highness. It is only seemly that it should be so. Your mother instructed me that I must be careful of those who would spy against you. I must not too readily trust the English. What an excellent opportunity for spying an Englishman would have if he were married to one of your own maids of honor!”
“But this was not a case of spying. They loved…”
“So dearly did he love her that he married someone else… not so long after plighting his troth to her.”
“They were kept apart.”
“And this great love could not endure against a little absence? Nay, Highness, trust your duenna, as your mother did. Always remember that it was our dearest Queen who put me in this position of trust. She will be looking down from her place in Heaven now—for who can doubt that such a saint is now in Heaven?—and she is imploring me—can you not sense her? I can— she is imploring me to stand firm, and you to understand that all I do is for your good.”