Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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THE ARCHDUCHESS MARGARET
The Archduchess Margaret clung to the ship’s bulwarks. The wind was rising; the storm clouds loured. Was the middle of winter a good time to make a perilous sea journey? She was sure that it was not. Yet, she thought, what would it have availed me had I asked to wait for the spring?
There had already been much delay, and her father was anxious for her marriage; so, it seemed, were the King and Queen who were to be her parents-in-law.
‘It is their will, not mine,’ she murmured.
Some girls of sixteen might have been terrified. There were so many events looming ahead of her which could be terrifying. There was to be a new life in a strange country, a new husband; even closer was a threatening storm at sea.
But the expression on the face of the Archduchess was calm. She had been sufficiently buffeted by life to have learned that it is foolish to suffer in anticipation that which one may or may not have to suffer in fact.
She turned to the trembling attendant at her side and laid a hand on the woman’s arm.
‘The storm may not touch us,’ she said. ‘It may break behind us. That can happen at sea. The strong wind is carrying us fast to Spain.’
The woman shuddered.
‘And if we are to die,’ mused Margaret, ‘well then, that is our fate. There are worse deaths, I believe, than drowning.’
‘Your Grace should not talk so. It is tempting God.’
‘Do you think God would change His plans because of the idle chatter of a girl like myself?’
The woman’s lips were moving in prayer.
I should be praying with her, thought Margaret. This is going to be a bad storm. I can feel it in the air. Perhaps I am not meant to be a wife in reality.
Yet she did not move, but stood holding her face up to the sky – not with defiance but with resignation.
How can any of us know, she asked herself, when our last hour will come?
She turned her comely face to the woman. ‘Go to my cabin,’ she said. ‘I will join you there.’
‘Your Grace should come with me now. This is no place for you.’
‘Not yet,’ said Margaret. ‘I will come when the rain starts.’
‘Your Grace …’
‘That was an order,’ said Margaret with a quiet firmness, and a few seconds later she was smiling to see with what alacrity the woman left her side.
How terrified people were of death, mused Margaret. Was it because they remembered their sins? Perhaps it was safer to die when one was young. At sixteen a girl, who had been watched over as she had been, could not have committed a great many sins.
She held up her face to the rising anger of the wind.
How far are we from the coast of Spain? she wondered. Can we reach it? I have a feeling within me that I am destined to die a virgin.
It was unusual that a young girl could feel so calm when she was leaving her home for a strange country. But then her father’s dominions had not been home to her for so long. She scarcely knew Maximilian, for he was a man of many engagements. His children were to him as counters in a great game to be used in winning him possessions in the world. He was fortunate to have a son and a daughter both strong and healthy, both comely enough; in the case of Philip extremely so. But it was not the appearance of men that was so important. Nevertheless Maximilian had nothing of which to complain in his children. He had a worthy son and a daughter with whom to bargain in the markets of the world.
Margaret smiled. The men were the fortunate ones. They did not have to leave their homes. Arrogant Philip had merely to wait for his bride to be delivered to him. It was the women who must suffer.
And for that, thought Margaret, I should be grateful, since I suffer scarcely at all. Does it matter to me whether I am in France, in Flanders or in Spain? None has seemed to be home to me. I am too young to have had so many homes, and as I quickly learned that my hold on any of them lacked permanence, I learned also not to attach myself too tenderly to any one of them.
She faintly remembered her arrival in France. She had been barely three years old at the time and had been taken from her home in Flanders to be brought up at the French Court because, through her mother, Mary of Burgundy, she had inherited Burgundy; and the French King, Louis XI, had sought to bring Burgundy back to France by betrothing her to his son, the Dauphin Charles.
So to Amboise she had come. She often thought of the great château which had been her home for so many years. Even now, with the storm imminent, she could imagine that she was not on this deck but within those thick walls. She recalled the great buttresses, the cylindrical towers and the rounded roofs, which looked as if they could defy the wind and rain to the end of time.
Within those walls she had been prepared to meet her betrothed – a rather terrifying experience for a little girl of three and a half whose bridegroom was a boy of twelve.
That ceremony of betrothal was an occasion which would never be obliterated from Margaret’s memory. Clearly she could recall meeting her bridegroom at a little farm near the town of Amboise, which was afterwards called La Métairie de la Reyne, whither she had been carried in a litter. It was a strange ceremony, doubtless considered fitting for children of such tender years. She remembered being asked if she would take Monsieur le Dauphin in marriage, and how the Grand Sénéchal, who stood close to her, prodded her and told her she must say that she would.
Then she had been put into the arms of young Charles and told to kiss him. She was to be a wife to the future King of France, and the people of Amboise showed their pleasure by hanging scarlet cloth from their windows and putting up banners which were stretched across the streets.
After that she had been taken back to the château, and her sister-in-law, Anne, the Duchess of Bourbon who was the eldest daughter of the reigning King and past her twentieth birthday, had been her guardian.
Margaret had quickly adjusted herself and had pleased her tutors by her love of learning. She will make a good Queen of France, they often said; she is the best possible wife for the Dauphin.
Charles had very soon become King, and that meant that she, Margaret, was an even more important person than before.
Yet she had never been Charles’s wife in reality, for eight years after her arrival in France, while she was still a child, Charles decided that he preferred Anne, Duchess of Brittany, to be his wife.
So, to the wrath of Margaret’s father, Charles sent her back to Flanders, ignoring the vows he had taken in the Métairie de la Reyne on that day eight years before.
Maximilian was infuriated by the insult, but Margaret had felt philosophical.
She thought of Charles now. He was far from the handsome husband a girl might long for. He was short and, because his head was enormous, his lack of inches was accentuated. His expression was blank and his aquiline nose so enormous that it overpowered the rest of his features. He seemed to find it difficult to keep his mouth closed, for his lips were thick and coarse and he breathed heavily and took a long time to consider what he was going to say; whereas Margaret herself was quick-witted and fluent.
He was kind enough; but he had little interest in books and ideas, which made him seem dull to her; she could not share his interest in sport and jousting.
So, she thought, perhaps it was not such a tragedy that he shipped me back to Flanders.
And now she was being shipped to Spain. ‘If I ever reach there,’ she murmured.
Two of the ship’s high-ranking officers had approached her, and so deep was she in her thoughts that she had not noticed them.
‘Your Grace,’ said one, bowing low, ‘it is unsafe for you to remain on deck. The storm is about to break and we must ask you to seek the shelter of your cabin.’
Margaret inclined her head. They were anxious about her, she knew. She was the most important cargo they had ever carried. She represented all the advantages that union with a daughter of Maximilian could bring to Spain.
They were right too. She was almost blown off her feet, as she started across the deck. The two men held her, and laughing, she accepted their assistance.
The ship tossed and rolled, and the din was terrific. As she sheltered in her cabin with two of her attendants she occasionally heard the shouts of the sailors above the roar of the wind.
She saw two of her attendants clinging together. They were terrified. Their orders had been not to leave her if there was any danger, and their fear of Maximilian was greater than their fear of the storm.
She saw the tears on their faces as their fingers clutched their rosaries and their lips moved in continual prayer.
‘How frail a thing is a ship,’ said Margaret.’ How fierce is an ocean!’
‘You should pray, Your Grace. I fear some of the smaller ships will have been lost and we shall never come out of this alive.’
‘If it is the end, then it is the end,’ said Margaret.
The two women looked at each other. Such calmness alarmed them. It was unnatural.
‘We shall die without a priest,’ sighed one of the women, ‘with all our sins on us.’
‘You have not sinned greatly,’ Margaret comforted her. ‘Pray now for forgiveness, and it will be granted you.’
‘You pray with us.’
‘I find it difficult to ask God to spare my life,’ said Margaret, ‘for, if He has decided to take it, I am asking Him to go against His wishes. Perhaps we shall hate living so much that it will be more intolerable than death.’
‘Your Grace! Do not say such things!’
‘But if we are to find bliss in Heaven why should we be so distressed at the thought of going there? I am not distressed. If my time has come, I am ready. I do not think that my new father and mother-in-law are going to be very pleased with me. Perhaps they will already have heard of the manner in which Philip is treating their daughter.’
She was thinking of Philip – golden haired and handsome. What a beautiful boy he had always been. Everyone had made much of him, especially the women. She suspected that he had been initiated into the arts of love-making at a very early age, for some lusty young serving girl would surely have found the good looks of Philip impossible to resist; and Philip would be so eager to learn; he had been born to philander.
At an early age he had had his mistresses and had not been greatly interested in the wife he was to have. He had accepted her in his free and easy Flemish way – for Philip had the Flanders easy manners – as one of a group. Margaret knew he would not give up his mistresses merely because he had a wife.
And it was said that the Spaniards were a dignified people. Their ways would certainly not be the ways of Flanders. Poor Juana. Her future was not an enviable one. But perhaps, thought Margaret, she has a temperament like my own. Then she will accept what is, because it must be, and not ask for what it is impossible for life to give her.
Did they know in Spain that Philip had made no haste to greet his bride, that he had dallied with his gay friends – so many of them voluptuous women – and had laughingly declared that there was time enough for marriage?
I am afraid Juana is not getting a good husband, mused Margaret. I must say this even though that husband is my own brother.
So perhaps there would not be a very enthusiastic welcome for Philip’s sister when she reached Spain; and if she never did, who could say at this stage that that would not be a fortunate outcome?
The women in her cabin were moaning.
‘Our last hour has come,’ whispered one of them. ‘Holy Mother of God, intercede for us.’
Margaret closed her eyes. Surely the ship was being rent asunder.
Yes, she thought, this is the end of my father’s hopes through me. Here on the ocean bed will lie the bones of Margaret of Austria, daughter of Maximilian, drowned on her way to her wedding with the heir of Spain.
She began to compose her epitaph. It helped her not to catch the fear of those about her; she had discovered that it was all very well to talk lightly of death when it was far off; when you felt its breath in your face, when you heard its mocking laughter, you could not resist a certain fear. How could anyone be sure what was waiting on the other side of that strange bridge which joined Life with Death?
‘Ci gist Margot,’ she murmured, ‘la gentil’ damoiselle
Qu’a deux maris, et encore est pucelle.’
THE MARRIAGE OF JUAN
On a bright March day what was left of the battered fleet came into the port of Santander. Waiting to greet it were Ferdinand the King and by his side his son, Juan, the bridegroom to be.
Juan was nervous. His thoughts were for the young girl who had come perilously near to death at sea and had been miraculously brought to him. He must try to understand her; he must be gentle and kind.
His mother had talked to him about her, although she knew of course that she had no need to ask her son to show indulgence. Kindness came naturally to him. He hoped that she was not a flighty, senseless girl. Although if she were he would try to understand her ways. He would try to be interested in her interests. He would have to learn to enjoy dancing perhaps; he would have to pay more attention to sports. It was hardly likely that she would share his interests. She was young and doubtless she was gay. One could not expect her to care for books and music as he did.
Well then, he must suppress his inclinations. He must try above all to put her at ease. Poor child! How would she feel, leaving her home?
Ferdinand was smiling at him.
‘Well, my son, in a short while now you will see her,’ he said.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘It reminds me of the first day I saw your mother.’ Ferdinand wanted to say: If she does not please you, you should not take it to heart. There are many women in the world and they’ll be ready enough to please the heir to my crown.
But of course one would not say such things to Juan. He was quite unlike the gay Alfonso on whom Ferdinand had wished to bestow the Archbishopric of Toledo. Ferdinand felt a little wistful. It would have been pleasant had this son of his been a little more like himself. There was too much of Isabella in him. He had too strong a sense of duty. He looked almost frail in the spring sunshine. We should try to fatten him up, harden him, thought Ferdinand. And yet he was always a little abashed in the presence of his son; Juan made him feel earthy, a little uneasy about the sins he had committed throughout a long and lusty life. Angel was a good name for him; but the company of an angel could sometimes be a little disconcerting.
Even now Ferdinand guessed that, instead of impatiently waiting to size up the girl’s personal attributes – which was all he need concern himself with, her titles and inheritance being good enough even for the heir to Spain – he was thinking how best he could put her at ease.
Odd, thought Ferdinand, that such as I should have a son like that.
‘She is coming ashore now,’ said Juan; and he was smiling.
They rode side by side on their way to Burgos where Queen Isabella and the rest of the royal family would be waiting to greet them.
They were pleased with each other, and they made a charming pair. The people, who had lined their route to watch them pass, cheered them and called out their blessings.
They loved their heir. He was not so much handsome as beautiful, and his sweet expression did not belie the reports they had heard of him. It was said that any petition first submitted to Juan would be certain to receive attention, no matter if it came from the most humble. Indeed the more humble the petitioner, the more easily the Prince’s sympathies were aroused.
‘Long live the Prince of the Asturias!’ cried the people. ‘Long live the Archduchess Margaret!’
Ferdinand, riding with them, had graciously hung back. He was ready on this occasion to take second place to his heir and the bride. He would not have had it otherwise. He was congratulating himself. The girl looked healthy and none would guess she had been almost drowned at sea a week ago.
Margaret wished to talk to Juan. His Spanish manners were to her somewhat dignified, and she, after some years in Flanders, knew no such restraint.
‘The people love you,’ she said.
‘They love a wedding,’ he answered. ‘It means feasting and holidays.’
‘Yes, no doubt they do. But I think they have a special regard for you personally. Is my Spanish intelligible to you?’
‘Completely. It is very good.’
She laughed. ‘You would say it was good, no matter how bad it was.’
‘Nevertheless it is very good indeed. I trust my sister Juana speaks her husband’s language as well as you speak that of the man who will be yours.’
‘Ah … Juana,’ she said.
‘Did you see much of my sister?’ he asked anxiously.
‘No. She travelled to Lille, you know, for the wedding. I had to prepare myself to return with the fleet.’
He was quick to notice that she found the subject of Juana disconcerting, so changed it immediately although he was anxious to hear news of Juana.
‘Tell me, what pastimes please you most?’
She gave him a grateful look. ‘I’m afraid you will find me rather dull,’ she said.
‘I cannot believe it.’
She laughed aloud again, and he noticed – though she did not – that the attendants were astonished at her displays of mirth. Flemish manners! they were thinking. It was not fitting to show such lack of dignity in Spain.
But Juan liked that laughter; it was fresh and unaffected.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do not greatly care for games and dancing and such diversions. I spend a great deal of time reading. I am interested in the history of countries and the ideas of philosophers. I think my brother deemed me a little odd. He says that I have not the right qualities to please a husband.’
‘That is not true.’ She saw the sudden gleam in Juan’s eyes. ‘I am not good at sport and games either. I frankly dislike hunting.’
Margaret said quickly: ‘I too. I cannot bear to hunt animals to the death. I picture myself being hunted to death. My brother laughs at me. He said that you would.’
‘I would never laugh at you nor scorn your ideas if they differed from my own. But, Margaret, I think that you and I are going to think alike on many things.’
‘That makes me happy,’ she said.
‘And you are not afraid … coming to a strange land … to a strange husband?’
‘No,’ she answered seriously, ‘I am not afraid.’
Juan’s heart began to beat wildly as he looked at her clean-cut young profile and her fair, fine skin.
She has all that I could have wished for in a wife, he told himself. Surely I am the luckiest of Princes. How serene she is! She looks as though she would never be ruffled. It is going to be so easy … so pleasant … so wonderful. I need not have been afraid. I shall not be shy and awkward with her. She is so young, and yet she has a calmness almost equal to that of my mother. What a wonderful person my wife will be.
‘You are smiling,’ she said. ‘Tell me what amuses you.’
He answered seriously: ‘It is not amusement which makes me smile. It is happiness.’
‘That,’ she replied, ‘is the best possible reason for smiling.’
So, thought Juan, I am beginning to love her already.
Margaret also began to smile. She was telling herself that she had been fortunate as she remembered the flabby lips of Charles VIII of France.
She was glad that she had been sent to France and affianced to Charles. It was going to make her realise how lucky she was to have come to Spain to marry Juan.
So on they rode to the shouts of ‘Long live the Prince! Blessings on him and his bride!’
They were already serenely contented as they thought of the years ahead.
In the Palace at Burgos the arrival of the cavalcade, headed by Ferdinand, his son and the bride, was awaited with eagerness.
In the children’s apartments the Princess Isabella watched the servants busy at the toilet of her sisters, Maria and Catalina.
How quiet they were! It would have been so different if Juana had been with them. She would have been speculating about the bride, shouting her wild opinions to them all.
Isabella felt rather pleased that Juana was no longer with them.
She was praying – she spent a great deal of time praying – that this young girl would make Juan happy. She hoped that she would be a gentle, religious girl. It would be heartbreaking if she were a wanton; and Isabella knew that stories were already reaching Spain of this girl’s brother’s conduct.
The Queen was very anxious about Juana, and the Flemish marriage was her greatest concern at the moment. Their father of course was only congratulating himself because the alliance had been made, and that Juana would be the mother of the Habsburg heirs. It would seem unimportant to him if she were wretchedly unhappy while she was producing them.
Maria was placidly relaxed while her attendants dressed her. She was as emotionless as ever. Stolid Maria, who lacked the imagination to wonder what Margaret felt on coming into a new country, to wonder whether she herself would not be doing the same in a future which was not really very distant!
How different it was with Catalina. Her little face was set and anxious, and it was not difficult to guess at the thoughts which went on behind those big dark eyes.
Poor little Catalina! She was going to suffer a terrible wrench if she ever went to England.
An attendant came to the apartment and whispered to Isabella that the Queen’s Highness wished to see her without delay, and she was to present herself in the Queen’s bedchamber.
Young Isabella left her sisters at once and went to her mother’s apartment.
The Queen was waiting for her, and Isabella’s heart sank as she looked at her, for she guessed what she had to say.
The Queen kissed the Princess and said: ‘There is news from Portugal. I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted to prepare you. Your father will doubtless be speaking of this matter when he sees you.’
Isabella’s mouth had gone dry. ‘Yes, Mother,’ she said.
‘Emanuel writes that since we insist on this condition he is ready to accept it.’
Isabella’s pale cheeks were suddenly flushed. She cried out: ‘You mean he will drive all those people out of his country just because …’
‘Just because he is so eager for this marriage. So, my dear, you should really begin to plan your departure for Portugal.’
‘So … soon?’ stammered Isabella.
‘I’m afraid your father wishes the marriage to take place this year.’
‘Oh … no!’
‘It is so. Dear Isabella, I shall insist that we meet again soon after you leave us. If you do not come to me here in Spain, I will come to you in Portugal.’
‘Mother, do you promise this?’
‘I swear it.’
Isabella was silent. Then she burst out: ‘Is there nothing I can do …? I did not think he would agree to this …’
‘He wants this marriage. You should rejoice. It is more than a good marriage. On his side it is a love-match.’
‘But there is my side, Mother.’
‘You will love him in time. I know, my child. I am sure of it. He is a good and gentle man and he loves you dearly. You have nothing to fear.’
‘But, Mother, this condition …’
‘But shows how much he loves you.’
‘I know that he does it against his will.’
‘That is because, good as he is, he has a certain blindness. That holy man, Tomás de Torquemada, sees in this the hand of God.’
Isabella shuddered. She wanted to shout that she did not like Torquemada, that she feared him, and when her cough kept her awake at night she fancied she heard the curses of the exiled Jews.
Her mother would not understand such flights of fancy. How could she explain to her? Her emotions seemed to choke her, and she feared that if she did not calm herself one of her bouts of coughing would overtake her.
She tried not to cough in front of her mother, because she knew how it worried the Queen. It was enough that Juana gave her such anxieties.
She said: ‘Mother, if you will excuse me, I will go back to my apartment. I have some more preparations to make if I am to be ready when the party arrives.’
The Queen nodded assent and, when her daughter had gone, murmured to herself: ‘All will be well. This is the best thing that could happen to my Isabella.’
Isabella the Queen took the daughter of Maximilian in her arms and embraced her.
There were tears in Isabella’s eyes. The girl was charming; she was healthy; and it seemed to her that Juan was already very happy with his bride.
Ferdinand looked on, his eyes agleam. It was very pleasant to be able to share in the general delight.
‘We welcome you to Burgos,’ said the Queen. ‘I could not express how eager we have been for your coming.’
‘I am happy to be here, Your Highness.’
The girl’s smile was perhaps too warm, too friendly.
I must remember, the Queen told herself, that she has lived long in Flanders and the Flemish have little sense of decorum.
The Princesses Isabella, Maria and Catalina came forward and formally welcomed Margaret.
They thought her strange with her Flemish clothes, her fresh complexion and her familiar manners; but they liked her. Even Maria seemed to grow a little animated as she watched her. As for Catalina, she took great courage from this girl, who seemed quite unperturbed that she had come to a land of strangers to marry a man whom she had only recently met.
A banquet had been prepared, and Juan and his bride sat with the King and Queen; and they talked of the jousting and festivities which had been arranged to celebrate the marriage.
‘It is a pity that it is Lent,’ said the Queen. ‘But as soon as it is over the nuptials shall be solemnised. We think that the third of April shall be the day of the wedding.’
Catalina looked quickly at the face of the Flemish Archduchess; she was relieved to see that the mention of a date for her wedding did not seem to disturb her.
It was the most magnificent spectacle seen in Spain for many years.
This was, after all, the wedding of the heir to the throne. It seemed more than the celebration of a wedding. Spain had never seemed to hold out such hopes of a prosperous future for her people. The prospects for peace were brighter than they had been for many years. No more taxes to pay for useless battles! No more forcing men from their peaceful labours to fight in the armies! Peace meant prosperity – and it seemed that here it was at last.
The charming young bridegroom would be the first heir of the whole of Spain, and the people had come to realise that a united Spain was happier to live in than a country divided into kingdoms which were continually warring with each other.
Even the frugal Isabella was determined that this marriage of her only son should be an occasion which all should remember, and she was therefore ready to spend a great deal of money in making it so.
All over the country there were tourneys and fêtes. Towns were gaily decorated throughout the land. Across the narrow streets in the smallest villages banners hung.
‘Long life to the heir!’ cried the people. ‘Blessings on the Prince of the Asturias and his bride!’
The marriage was celebrated with the greatest dignity and ceremony. The Archbishop of Toledo performed it, and with him were the grandees of Castile and the nobility of Aragon. It was a sight of great magnificence and splendour.
And as Margaret made her vows once more she compared her bridegroom with that boy of twelve to whom she had been betrothed in a farmhouse near the château of Amboise, and again she rejoiced in her good fortune.
Juan had dreaded the moment when they would be alone together. He had imagined the terrors of a young girl who might not fully understand what would be required of her, and himself explaining as gently as he could; he had not relished the task.
When they lay in the marriage bed it was Margaret who spoke first.
‘Juan,’ she said, ‘you are afraid of me.’
‘I am afraid that I might distress you,’ he answered.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘I shall not be distressed.’
‘Are you never distressed, Margaret?’
‘Not by that which must be.’
Juan lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘As you say, what must be, must be.’
Then she laughed suddenly and, pulling her hand away from him, she put her arms about him.
‘I am so glad that you are as you are, Juan,’ she said. ‘I am sure nothing you do could possibly distress me. When I think that it might have been Charles lying beside me at this moment …’ She shivered.
‘Charles? The King of France?’
‘He has thick lips, and he grunts. He is not unkind but he would be coarse and … he would never understand me.’
‘I hope to understand you, Margaret.’
‘Call me Margot,’ she said. ‘It is my special name … the name I like those whom I love to call me by.’
‘Do you love me then, Margot?’
‘I think so, Juan. I think I must, because … I am not afraid.’
And so the difficulty was soon over, and that which had alarmed them became a pleasure. She taught him to laugh in her gay Flemish way, and he found himself fascinated by her familiar talk which might have seemed coarse on some lips, never on hers.
‘Oh Juan,’ she cried, ‘I thought my bones would now be lying on the sea bed and the big fishes would have eaten my flesh, and the little ones sport about my skeleton and swim in and out of the sockets of my eyes.’
‘Don’t say such things,’ he said, kissing her eyes.
‘I said, “Here lies Margot. She was twice married but she died a virgin.”’ Then she began to laugh afresh. ‘That can never be my epitaph now, Juan. For here lies Margot … beside you … but she is no longer a virgin … and she is not displeased.’
So they made love again, without fear or shame.
And in the morning Juan said: ‘We have given our parents what they wanted.’
Margaret interrupted: ‘The crown of Spain.’
Juan chanted: ‘The Habsburg inheritance.’
Then they laughed and began to kiss in a sudden frenzy of passion. Margaret drew herself away from him and kneeling on the bed bowed her head as though before the thrones of the King and Queen.
‘We thank Your Gracious Majesties. You may keep the crown of Spain …’
‘And the Habsburg inheritance …’ added Juan.
‘Because …’ began Margaret, smiling at him.
‘Because,’ added Juan, ‘you gave us each other.’
The wedding celebrations continued. The most popular person in the whole of Spain was the young Prince Juan. It was said of him that since the coming of Margaret he looked more like a man than an angel, but his sweetness of expression had not grown less. His bride was clearly a happy girl. It was small wonder that wherever they went there was rejoicing.
