Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
‘Go back to your University,’ she cried. ‘Go and get on with your polyglot Bible. Go and torture the poor people of Granada. But leave me alone.’
‘Your Highness, it would seem that all sense of decency has deserted you.’
‘Save your words for those who need them,’ she spat at him. ‘You have no right to torture me, Ximenes de Cisneros.’
Henriquez tried with softer words.
‘Dearest cousin, you are causing us distress. We are anxious on your account. You will become ill if you stay here thus.’
‘If you are so anxious about me, why do you stop my joining my husband?’
‘You are not stopped, Highness. You are only asked to wait until the weather is more suited to the long journey you must make.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she snarled.
Then she hung her head and stared at the ground, and would not answer them.
Ximenes was pondering whether he would not have her taken in by force, but it was not easy to find those who would be ready to carry out such instructions. This was the future Queen of Spain.
He shuddered when he thought of her. She was inflicting suffering on her body as he himself had so many times. But for what different purpose! He had mortified his flesh that he might grow to greater saintliness; she mortified hers out of defiance because she was denied the gratification of her lust.
Juana spent the next night in the hut, and again at daybreak she was at her post at the gates. And that morning Isabella arrived.
As soon as the Queen entered she went straight to her daughter. She did not scold her, or speak of her duty; she merely took Juana into her arms, and for the first time Isabella broke down. The tears ran down her cheeks as she embraced her daughter. Then, still weeping, she took off her heavy cloak and wrapped it about Juana’s cold form.
Then Juana seemed to forget her purpose. She gave a little cry and whispered: ‘Mother, oh my dear Mother.’
‘I am here now,’ said Isabella. ‘All is well. Mother is here.’
It was as though she were a child again. The years seemed to drop from her. She was the wild Juana who had been guilty of some mischief, who had been punished, and who was frightened and uncertain and wanted only the comfort and reassurance her mother could give.
‘We are going inside now,’ said the Queen. ‘Then you and I will talk. We will make plans and discuss all that you wish to discuss. But, my darling, you are so cold and you are so weak. You must do what your mother says. Then you will be strong and well enough to join your husband in Flanders. If you are sick you could not, could you? Nor would he want a sick wife.’
Isabella, with those few words, had been able to do what the fire of Ximenes, the persuasion of Henriquez and the entreaties of Burgos had failed to do.
Her arm about her daughter, the Queen led Juana into the Palace.
Now that the final blow had fallen on Isabella – that which she had dreaded for so long and which could now not be denied – her health gave way.
She was so ill that for days she could do nothing but keep to her bed. She was unable to make her journeys with Ferdinand, and this was indeed an anxious time for Spain, for the French were threatening invasion.
With the coming of the spring Juana left for Flanders. Isabella said a fond farewell to her daughter, certain that she would never see her again. She did not attempt to advise her, because any advice she gave would not be heeded.
Isabella was aware that her grip on life was no longer very strong.
Even as she embraced Juana she was telling herself that she must put her affairs in order.
Juana rode joyfully to the coast. The people cheered as she went. There were many in the country villages who did not know of her madness, and who believed that she had been cruelly kept a prisoner, separated from her husband.
As she went, smiling graciously, there was nothing of the mad woman about her. When she was peacefully happy, Juana appeared to be completely sane; and she was happy now because she was going to be with Philip.
There was a delay at Laredo before the sea journey could be attempted, and during that time Juana began to show signs of stress, but before her madness could take a grip of her she was at sea.
What joy it was to be in Brussels again. She was a little worried when Philip did not come to the coast to meet her. Those of her attendants who knew the signs of wildness watched her intently and waited.
In the Palace Philip greeted her casually as though they had not been separated for months. But if she were disappointed she was so delighted to be near him again that she did not show this.
He spent the first night of her arrival with her and she was ecstatically happy; but it was not long before she discovered that his attention was very much occupied elsewhere.
He had a new mistress, one on whom he doted, and it did not take Juana very long to discover who this was. There were many malicious tongues eagerly waiting for the opportunity to point the woman out to her.
When Juana saw her, waves of anger rose within her. This woman had the physique of a Juno. She was a typical Flemish beauty, big-hipped, big-breasted, with a fresh complexion, but the most startling thing about her was her wonderful golden hair; abundant, it fell curling about her shoulders to beyond her waist, and it was clear that she was so proud of it that she invariably wore it loose and was actually setting a new fashion at the Court.
For days Juana watched that woman, hatred growing within her. For nights when she lay alone hoping that Philip would come to her she thought of that woman and what she would do to her if she could lay her hands upon her.
Philip neglected her completely now and the frustration of being so near him and yet denied his company was as great as that of being a prisoner in Medina del Campo.
Philip had to leave Court for a few days, and to Juana’s great joy he did not take his golden-haired mistress with him.
With Philip away Juana could give her orders. She was his wife, the Princess of Spain, the Archduchess of Flanders. He could not take that away from her and give it to the long-haired wanton.
Juana was wild with excitement. She summoned her women to her, and demanded that her husband’s mistress be brought before her.
There she stood, insolent, knowing her power, fully realising Juana’s love and need of Philip; in her eyes was a look of pitying insolence as though she were remembering all that she enjoyed with Philip, which favours were denied to his wife.
Juana cried: ‘Have you brought the cords I asked for?’
And one of the women answered that she had.
‘Then send for the men,’ ordered Juana. And several of the men servants, who had been waiting for this summons, having been warned that it would come, entered the apartment.
Juana pointed to Philip’s mistress. ‘Bind her. Bind her, hand and foot.’
‘Do no such thing,’ cried the woman. ‘It will be the worse for you if you do.’
Juana in her frenzy assumed all the dignity which her mother had always been at great pains to teach her. ‘You will obey me!’ she said quietly. ‘I am the mistress here.’
The men looked at each other and, as the flaxen-haired beauty was about to run from the apartment, one of them caught her and held her fast. The others, following his lead, did as Juana had commanded, and in a few minutes the struggling woman was pinioned, and the stout cords wound about her body. Trussed, she lay at the feet of Juana, her great blue eyes wide with horror.
‘Now,’ said Juana, ‘send for the barber.’
‘What are you going to do?’ cried the woman.
‘You will see,’ Juana told her; and she felt the wild laughter shake her body; but she controlled it. If she were going to take her revenge she must be calm.
The barber entered, carrying the tools of his trade.
‘Place this woman on a chair,’ said Juana.
Again that wild laughter surged up within her. Often she had imagined what she would do with one of Philip’s women if she ever had one at her mercy. She had imagined torture, mutilation, even death for one of those who had caused her so much suffering.
But now she had a brilliant idea. This was going to be the best sort of revenge.
‘Cut off her hair,’ said Juana. ‘Shave her head.’
The woman screamed, while the barber stood aghast, staring at that rippling golden glory.
‘You heard what I said,’ screeched Juana. ‘Do as I say, or I will have you taken to prison. I will have you tortured. I will have you executed. Obey me at once.’
The barber muttered: ‘Yes, yes … Your Grace … yes, yes, my lady.’
‘She is mad, mad,’ screamed the frightened woman, who could imagine few greater tragedies than the loss of her beautiful hair.
But the barber was at work and there was little she could do about it. Juana commanded two of the other men to hold her still, and soon the beautiful locks lay scattered on the floor.
‘Now shave her head,’ cried Juana. ‘Let me see her completely bald.’
The barber obeyed.
Juana was choking with laughter. ‘How different she looks! I do not recognise her. Do you? She’s no beauty now. She looks like a chicken.’
The woman who had shrieked her protests in a manner almost as demented as Juana’s now lay gasping in her chair. She was clearly suffering from shock.
‘You may release her,’ said Juana. ‘You may take her away. Bring a mirror. Let her see how much she owed to those beautiful golden curls of which I have robbed her.’
As the woman was carried out, Juana gave way to paroxysms of laughter.
Philip strode into his wife’s apartments.
‘Philip!’ she cried and her eyes shone with delight.
He was looking at her coldly and she thought: So he went to her first; he has seen her.
Then a terrible fear came to her. He was angry, and not with his mistress for the loss of the beautiful hair which he had found so attractive, but with the one who had been responsible for cutting it off.
She stammered: ‘You have seen her?’ And in spite of herself, gurgling, choking laughter rose in her throat. ‘She … she looks like … a chicken.’
Philip took her by the shoulders and shook her. Yes, he had seen her. He had been thinking of her during the journey to Brussels, thinking with pleasure of the moment of reunion; and then to find her … hideous. That shaved head instead of those soft flaxen curls! He had found her repulsive and had not been able to hide it. He had seen the deep humiliation in her face and had but one desire – to get away from her.
She had said to him: ‘I was tied up, made helpless, and my hair was cut off, my head shaved. Your wife did it … your mad wife.’
Philip said: ‘It will grow.’ And he was thinking: My wife … my mad wife.
He had come straight to her and there was loathing within him.
She was mad. She was more repulsive to him than any woman he had ever known. She dared to do this while he was away. She believed she had some power in his Court. This was because her arrogant parents had reminded her that she was the heiress of Spain.
‘Philip,’ she cried, ‘I did it because she maddened me.’
‘You did not need her to madden you,’ he answered sharply. ‘You were mad already.’
‘Mad? No, Philip, no. Mad only with love for you. If you will be kind to me I will be calm always. It was only because I was jealous of her that I did this. Say you are not angry with me. Say you will not be cruel. Oh, Philip, she looked so queer … that head …’ The laughter bubbled up again.
‘Be silent!’ Philip said coldly.
‘Philip, do not look at me like that. I did it only because …’
‘I know why you did it. Take your hands off me. Never come near me again.’
‘You have forgotten. I am your wife. We must get children …’
He said: ‘We have children enough. Go away from me. I never want you near me again. You are mad. Have a care or I will put you away where you belong.’
She was pulling at his doublet, her face turned up to his, the tears beginning to run down her cheeks.
He threw her off and she fell to the floor as he walked quickly from the room.
Juana remained on the floor, sobbing; then suddenly she began to laugh again, remembering that grotesque shaven head.
None came near her. Outside the apartment her attendants whispered together.
‘Leave her. It is best when the madness is upon her. What will become of her? She grows more mad every day.’
And after a while Juana rose and went to her bed. She lay down and when her women came to her she said: ‘Prepare me for my bed. My husband will be coming to me soon.’
All through the night she waited; but he did not come. She waited through the days and nights that followed, but she did not see him.
She would sit waiting, a melancholy expression on her face; but occasionally she would burst into loud laughter; and each day someone in the Brussels Palace said: ‘She grows a little more insane each day.’
ISABELLA’S END
Isabella lay ill at Medina de Campo. She was suffering from the tertian fever, it was said, and there were signs of dropsy in her legs.
It was June when news was brought to her of that disgraceful episode at the Brussels Court.
‘Oh, my daughter,’ she murmured, ‘what will become of you?’
What could she do? she asked herself. What could she do for any of her daughters? Catalina was in England; she was afraid for Catalina. It was true that she had been formally betrothed to Henry, now Prince of Wales and heir of Henry VII, but she was anxious concerning the bull of dispensation which she had heard had come from Rome and which alone could make legal a marriage between Catalina and Prince Henry. She had not seen the dispensation. Could she trust the wily King of England? Might it not be that he wished to get his greedy hands on Catalina’s dowry, and not care whether the marriage to her late husband’s brother was legal or not?
‘I must see the bull,’ she told herself. ‘I must see it before I die.’
Maria as Queen of Portugal would be happy enough. Emanuel could be trusted. Maria the calm one, unexciting and unexcitable, had never given her parents any anxiety. Her future seemed more secure than that of any other of Isabella’s daughters.
But Isabella could cease to fret about Catalina when she contemplated Juana. What terrible tragedy did the future hold in store for Juana?
But, sick as she was, she was still the Queen. She must not forget her duties. There were always visitors from abroad to be received; the rights of her own people to protect. Ferdinand was unable to be with her. The French had attempted an invasion of Spain itself, but this Ferdinand had quickly frustrated.
Now that she was ill, Ferdinand himself was ill and unable to come to her; her anxiety for him increased her melancholy.
What will happen when I and Ferdinand have gone? Charles is a baby, Juana is mad. Philip will rule Spain. That must not be. Ferdinand must not die.
She prayed for her husband, prayed that he might be given strength to recover, to live until that time when Charles was grown into a strong man; and she prayed that her grandson might not have inherited his mother’s taint. Then she remembered Ximenes, her Archbishop; and a great joy came to her. He must stand beside Ferdinand; together they would rule Spain.
She thanked God for the Archbishop.
News came that Ferdinand had recovered from his sickness and, as soon as he was well enough to travel, he would be with her. With a lightened heart she made her will.
She wished to lie, she said, in Granada, in the Franciscan monastery of Santa Isabella in the Alhambra, with no memorial, only a plain inscription.
But I must lie beside Ferdinand, she thought, and it may be that he will wish to lie in a different place. So often during their lives she had felt herself forced to disagree with him. In death she would do as he wished.
She wrote somewhat unsteadily: ‘Should the King, my lord, prefer a sepulchre in another place, then my will is that my body be transported thither and laid at his side.’
She went on to write that the crown was to be settled on Juana, as Queen Proprietor, and the Archduke Philip, her husband; but she appointed Ferdinand, her husband, sole regent of Castile until the majority of her grandson Charles, for she must make arrangements respecting the government in the absence or incapacity of her daughter Juana.
Then she wept a little thinking of Ferdinand. She could remember clearly how he had looked when he had first come to her. In those days she had thought him perfect, the materialization of an ideal. Had she not determined to be the wife of Ferdinand many years before she had seen him? Young, handsome, virile – how many women had been fortunate enough to have such a husband?
‘If we had been humble people,’ she murmured, ‘if we had always been together, life would have been different for us. The children he begot on other women would have been my children. What a fine, big family I should have then!’
She wrote: ‘I beseech the King, my lord, that he will accept all my jewels or such as he shall select so that, seeing them, he may be reminded of the singular love I always bore him while living, and that I am now waiting for him in a better world; by which remembrance he may be encouraged to live the more justly and holily in this.’
She made the two principal executors of this will the King and Ximenes.
And when it was in order she prepared herself for death, for she knew there was very little time left to her on Earth.
On that dark November day in the year 1504, a deep sadness settled on the land. Throughout Spain it was known that the Queen was dying.
Isabella lay back on her bed; she was ready now to go. She had made her peace with God; she had lived her life. She could do no more for her beloved daughters, but in these last minutes she prayed for them.
She was conscious of Ferdinand, and she did not see him as the man he had become, but the young husband. She thought of the early days of their marriage when the country was divided and bands of robbers roamed the mountains and the plains. She could catch at that happiness now, that glorious feeling of certainty.
In those days she had said: ‘We will make a great Spain, Ferdinand, you and I together.’
And had they? To them was the honour of the re-conquest. To them was the glory of an all-Christian Spain. They had rid the country of Jews and Moors. In every town the fires of the Inquisition were blazing. A great New World across the sea was theirs.
‘And yet … and yet …’ she murmured.
She was clinging to life, because there were so many tasks yet to be completed.
‘Catalina …’ her lips formed the name of her youngest daughter. ‘Catalina, what will become of you in England?’
And then: ‘Juana … oh, my poor mad Juana, what lies ahead for you?’
These things she would never know; and now she was slipping away.
‘Ximenes,’ she whispered; ‘you must stand with Ferdinand. You must forget your dislike of each other and stand together.’
Then she seemed to hear Ferdinand’s voice close, filled with contempt: ‘Your Archbishop!’
But she was too tired, too weak; and these problems were no longer for her to solve. She was fifty-four and she had reigned for thirty years. It had been a good, long life.
Those about her bed were weeping, and she said: ‘Do not weep for me, nor waste your time in prayers for my recovery. I am going. Pray then for the salvation of my soul.’
They gave her Extreme Unction then; and shortly before noon on that November day Isabella, the Queen, slipped quietly away.
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