Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘I could never find it in my heart to separate you.’
He turned and left them together. He was now more than uneasy; he was decidedly worried.
He could not sleep that night. Juan’s condition had worsened during the day and Ferdinand found that he was sharing the general opinion of all those about the Prince.
Juan was very seriously ill.
When he had said good night to him Juan had put his burning lips to his father’s hand and had said: ‘Do not grieve for me, Father. If I am to die, and I think I am, I shall go to a better world than this.’
‘Do not say such things,’ Ferdinand had answered gruffly. ‘We need you here.’
‘Break the news gently to my mother,’ whispered Juan. ‘She loves me well. Tell her that her Angel will watch over her if it is possible for him to do so. Tell her that I love her dearly and that she has been the best mother anyone ever had. Tell her this for me, Father.’
‘You shall tell her such things yourself,’ retorted Ferdinand.
‘Father, you must not grieve for me. I shall be in the happier place. Grieve more for those I leave. Comfort my mother and care for Margaret. She is so young and she does not always understand our ways. I love her very dearly. Take care of her … and our child.’
‘Your child!’
‘Margaret is with child, Father.’
Ferdinand could not hide the joy which illumined his face. Juan saw it and understood.
‘You see, Father,’ he said, ‘if I go, I shall leave you consolation.’
A child! It made all the difference. Why had they not told him before? The situation was not so cruel as he had feared, since Margaret carried the heir to Spain and her Habsburg inheritance.
For the moment Ferdinand forgot to fear that his son might be dying.
But now that he was in his own room he thought of Juan, his gentle son, and how Isabella had doted on her ‘angel’. Juan had never caused them anxiety except over his health. He had been a model son, clever, kindly and obedient.
Ferdinand found that even the thought of the heir whom Margaret carried could not compensate for the loss of his son.
What was he going to tell Isabella? He thought tenderly of his wife who had given such love and devotion to their family. How was he going to break the news to her? She had wept bitterly because she was losing Isabella; she suffered continual anxiety over Juana in Flanders. She was thinking now of the days when Maria and Catalina would be torn from her side. If Juan died … how could he break the news to Isabella?
There was a knock at his door. He started forward and flung it open.
He knew what this message meant even before the man spoke.
‘The physicians think you should come to the Prince’s bedside to say goodbye to him, Highness.’
Ferdinand nodded.
Juan lay back on his pillows, a faint smile on his lips. Margaret was kneeling by his bed, her face buried in her hands. Her body looked as still as that of her dead husband.
Ferdinand faced his daughter-in-law. She seemed much older than the girl who only a few months before had married Juan. Her face was expressionless.
Ferdinand said gently: ‘There is the child to live for, my dear.’
‘Yes,’ answered Margaret, ‘I have the child.’
‘We shall take great care of you, my dear daughter. Let us comfort each other. I have lost the best of sons; you have lost the best of husbands. Your fortitude wins my admiration. Margaret, I do not know how to send this terrible news to his mother.’
‘She will wish to know the truth with all speed,’ Margaret said quietly.
‘The shock would kill her. She has no idea that he was suffering from anything but a mild fever. No, I must break this news gently. I am going to write to her now and tell her that Juan is ill and that you are with child. Two pieces of news, one good one bad. Then I will write again saying that Juan’s condition is giving cause for anxiety. You see, I shall gradually break this terrible news to her. It is the only way she could bear it.’
‘She will be heartbroken,’ Margaret murmured, ‘but I sometimes think she is stronger than any of us.’
‘Nay. At heart she is only a woman … a wife and mother. She loves all her children dearly, but he was her favourite. He was her son, the heir to everything we have fought for.’ Ferdinand suddenly buried his face in his hands. ‘I do not know how she will survive this shock.’
Margaret did not seem to be listening. She felt numb, telling herself that this had not really happened and that she was living through some hideous nightmare. She would wake soon to find herself in Juan’s arms and they would rise from their bed, go to the window and look out on the sunlit patio. They would ride again through the cheering crowds in the streets of Salamanca. She would laugh and say: ‘Juan, last night I had a bad dream. I dreamed that the worst possible thing which could befall me happened to me. And now I am awake, in the sunshine, and I am so happy to be alive because I know how singularly my life has been blessed since I have you.’
Ferdinand felt better when he was taking action. No sooner had he dispatched the two messengers than he called a secretary to him.
‘Write this to Her Highness the Queen,’ he commanded.
And the man began to write as the King dictated:
‘A terrible calamity has occurred in Salamanca. His Highness the King has died of a fever.’
The man stopped writing and stared at Ferdinand.
‘Ah, my good fellow, you look at me as though you think I am mad. No, this is not madness. It is good sense. The Queen will have to learn sooner or later of the death of the Prince. I have been considering how best I can break this news. I fear the effect it will have on her, and in this way I think I can soften the terrible blow. She will have had my two letters telling her of our son’s indisposition. Now I will ride with all speed to her. I shall send a messenger on ahead of me with the news of my death. That would be the greatest blow she could sustain. While she is overcome with the horror of this news I will stride in and confront her. She will be so overjoyed to see me that the blow of her son’s death will be less severe.’
The secretary bowed his head in melancholy understanding, but he doubted the wisdom of Ferdinand’s conduct.
However, it was not for him to criticise the action of his King, so he wrote the letter and, shortly afterwards, left Salamanca.
Isabella had said her last farewells to her daughter and Emanuel; the Infanta of Spain, now the Queen of Portugal, had set out with her husband and her retinue on the way to Lisbon.
How tired she was! She was becoming too old for long journeys, and taking leave of her daughter depressed her. She was extremely worried by the news of Juana which filtered through from Flanders. And now Juan was unwell.
The first of the messages arrived. Margaret was with child. The news filled her with joy; but the rest of the message said that Juan was unwell. The health of her children was a continual anxiety to her, and the two elder ones had always been delicate. Isabella’s cough had caused her mother a great deal of misgiving; Juan had been almost too frail and fair for a young man. Perhaps she had been so concerned about Juana’s mental condition that she had worried less about the physical health of the two elder children than she otherwise would have done. Maria and Catalina were much stronger; perhaps because they had been born in more settled times.
The second letter came almost immediately after the first. It appeared that Juan’s condition was more serious than they had at first thought.
‘I will go to him,’ she said. ‘I should be at his side at such a time.’
While she was giving orders to the servants to make ready for the journey to Salamanca another messenger arrived.
She was bewildered as she read the letter he brought. Ferdinand … dead! This could not be. Ferdinand was full of strength and vitality. It was Juan who was ill. She could not imagine Ferdinand anything but alive.
‘Hasten,’ she cried. ‘There is not a moment to lose. I must go with all speed to Salamanca to see what is really happening there.’
Ferdinand! Her heart was filled with strangely mingling feelings. There were so many memories of a marriage which had lasted for nearly thirty years.
She was bewildered and found it difficult to collect her thoughts.
Was it possible that there had been some mistake? Should she read Juan for Ferdinand?
She was sick with anxiety. If Juan were dead she would no longer wish to live. He was her darling whom she wished to keep by her side for as long as she lived. He was her only son, her beloved Angel. He could not be dead. It would be too cruel.
She read the message again. It clearly said the King.
Juan … Ferdinand. If she had lost her husband she would be sad indeed. She was devoted to him. If that great love which she had borne in the beginning had become a little battered by the years, he was still her husband and she could not imagine life without him.
But if Juan were spared to her she could rebuild her life. She would have her children, whose affairs would be entirely hers to manage as she would. She was experienced enough to rule alone.
‘Not Juan …’ she whispered.
And then Ferdinand strode into the room.
She stared at him as though he were a ghost. Then she ran to him and clasped his hands, pressing them in her own as though she wished to reassure herself that they were flesh and blood.
‘It is I,’ said Ferdinand.
‘But this …’ she stammered. ‘Someone has played a cruel trick. This says …’
‘Isabella, my dearest wife, tell me you are glad to know that paper lied.’
‘I am so happy to see you well.’
‘It is as I hoped. Oh, Isabella, fortunate we are indeed to be alive and together. We have had our differences, but what should we be without each other?’
She put her head against his chest and he embraced her. There were tears in his eyes.
‘Isabella,’ he continued. ‘Now that you are happy to see me restored to you I have some sad news which I must break to you.’
She drew away from him. Her face had grown deathly pale and her eyes were wide and looked black with fear.
‘Our son is dead,’ he said.
Isabella did not speak. She shook her head from side to side.
‘It is true, Isabella. He died of a malignant fever. The physicians could do nothing for him.’
‘Then why … why … was I not told?’
‘I thought to protect you. I have tried to prepare you for this shock. My dearest Isabella, I know how you suffer. Do I not suffer with you?’
‘My son,’ she whispered. ‘My angel.’
‘Our son,’ he answered. ‘But there will be a child.’
She did not seem to hear. She was thinking of that hot day in Seville when he had been born. She remembered holding him in her arms and the feeling of wild exultation which had come to her. Her son. The heir of Ferdinand and Isabella. She had been deeply concerned about the state of her country then; anarchy was in full spate, and there was the chaos which had followed on the disastrous reigns preceding her own; she had been setting up the Santa Hermandad in every town and village. And in her arms had lain that blessed child, so that at that time in spite of all her trials, she had been the happiest woman in Spain.
She could not believe that he was dead.
‘Isabella,’ said Ferdinand gently, ‘you have forgotten. There is to be a child.’
‘I have lost my son,’ she said slowly. ‘I have lost my angel child.’
‘There will be grandsons to take his place.’
‘No one will ever take his place.’
‘Isabella, you and I have no time for looking backwards. We must look forward. This tragedy has overcome us. We must be brave. We must say: This was the will of God. But God is merciful. He has taken our son, but not before he has left his fertile seed behind him.’
Isabella did not answer. She swayed a little and Ferdinand put his arm about her.
‘You should rest for a while,’ he said. ‘This shock has been too much for you.’
‘Rest!’ she retorted. ‘There is little rest left for me. He was my only son and I shall never see him smile again.’
She was fighting the impulse to rail against this cruel fate.
Is it not enough that two daughters have gone from me, and even my little Catalina will not long remain? she was demanding. Why should I suffer so? Juan was the one I thought to keep with me for ever.
Perhaps she should send for her confessor. Perhaps she was in need of prayer.
She sought to control herself. This cruel day had to be faced; life had to go on.
She lifted her face to Ferdinand and he saw that the wildness had gone from it.
She said in a clear voice which was as firm as ever: ‘The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be His Name.’
JUANA AND PHILIP
All Spain was in mourning for the Prince of the Asturias. Sable banners were hung up in all the important towns. The streets of Salamanca were silent save for the tolling of bells.
The King and Queen had returned to Madrid. They shut themselves in their private apartments in the Alcazar and gave way to their grief.
Throughout the land the extraordinary qualities of the Prince were talked of in hushed voices.
‘Spain,’ said its people, ‘has suffered one of the greatest losses she has ever been called upon to bear since she fell into the hands of the barbarians.’
But gradually the gloom lifted as the news spread. Before he died his child was conceived, and his widow, the young Archduchess from Flanders, carried this child in her womb.
When the child is born, it was said, Spain will smile again.
Catalina and Maria sat with their sister-in-law while they worked on their embroidery.
Margaret was more subdued than she had been before the death of Juan; she seemed even more gentle.
Catalina encouraged her to talk, but not of her life with Juan – that would be too painful. To talk of Flanders might also be an uneasy subject, for something was happening in Flanders, between Juana and her husband Philip, which was not pleasing to the Sovereigns. So the best subject was Margaret’s life in France, of which neither Catalina nor Maria ever tired of hearing. As for Margaret, recalling it seemed to bring her some peace, for if she could project herself back into a past, in which she had never even heard of Juan, she could escape her anguish for a while and know some comfort.
She made the two young girls see the town of Amboise situated at that spot where the Loire and the Amasse met; they saw the château standing on its rocky plateau, imposing and as formidable as a fortress, and the surrounding country with its fields and undulating vineyards.
‘And you thought,’ said Catalina, ‘that that would be your home for ever and that you would be Queen of France.’
‘It shows, does it not,’ said Margaret, ‘that we can never be sure of what is in store for us.’
She looked a little sad and Maria put in: ‘Were you unhappy to leave France?’
‘Yes, I think I was. I thought it was a great insult, you see, and I knew that my father would be angry. It was not very pleasant to have been chosen to be the bride of the King of France and then find that he preferred someone else.’
‘But you came to us instead,’ whispered Catalina, and wished she had not said that because she saw the spasm of pain cross Margaret’s face.
‘Tell us more about Amboise,’ she went on quickly.
Margaret was only too happy to do so. She told of Charles and his sister who had been her guardian, and their father Louis XI who delighted to wear the shabbiest clothes.
As she talked to the girls, Margaret felt the child moving within her and began to ask herself why she should wish to talk of the past. Juan was lost to her but she had his child.
She stopped and began to smile.
‘What is it?’ asked Catalina, and even Maria looked curious.
Margaret laid her hands on her body and said: ‘I can feel the child … mine and Juan’s … moving within me, and it is as though he kicks me. Perhaps he is angry that I talk of the past when he is about to come into the world, and is telling me that I should speak of the future.’
Maria looked a little startled and Catalina was shocked. Margaret’s manners were often disconcerting, but they were both glad to see that look in her face. It was as though she had come alive again, as though she had realised that there was happiness waiting for her in this world.
After that she talked to them about Juan; she told them of how she had thought she was going to die when her ship had been almost wrecked. There was no more talk of Amboise. She went over everything that had happened since her arrival in Spain; she could not talk enough of the wedding, of the celebrations, of their triumphal journey across Spain to Salamanca.
Catalina rejoiced and Maria brightened; they looked forward to those times which they spent together.
‘Whatever happens,’ said Catalina to Maria, ‘however evil our fate may seem, something good will come. Look at Margaret. Juan was taken from her; but she is to have Juan’s child.’
That was a very comforting philosophy for Catalina; she cherished it.
Now there was less talk of Juan’s death; everyone was awaiting the birth of Juan’s son.
‘It will be as though he lives again,’ said the Queen. ‘I shall feel fresh life within me when I hold my grandchild in my arms.’
Ferdinand talked of the child as though it were a boy.
‘Please let it be a boy,’ prayed Catalina. ‘Then my mother will be happy again.’
It was an ordinary enough day. Margaret had sat with Catalina and Maria at their sewing and they had talked of the baby, as they did continually now.
‘He will soon be with us,’ Margaret told them. ‘How I shall welcome him. I do assure you I do not greatly care to be seen in this condition.’
Maria looked shocked. She thought that it was tempting God and the saints to talk in such a way; but Catalina knew that it was only the Flemish manner and not to be taken seriously.
Margaret had put her hands on her bulging body and said: ‘Oh, he is a sly one. He is very quiet today. Usually he kicks me to warn me that he will not long stay imprisoned in my body.’
Then she laughed and, although perhaps it was a shocking subject, Catalina rejoiced to see her so gay.
They chatted about the child and the clothes and the cradle which were being prepared for him; and the fêtes that would take place to celebrate his birth. They grew quite merry. It was an ordinary pleasant day.
Catalina did not know when she first became aware of the tension in the Palace. She, who loved her home perhaps more dearly than any of the others, was always conscious of its moods.
What was it? An unexpected quietness, followed by more activity than usual. Grave faces. Whisperings.
She went to the sewing room. Maria was there but Margaret was not.
‘What has happened, Maria?’
‘It is the baby.’
‘But it is too soon. They said …’
‘It has come nevertheless.’
Catalina’s face broke into a smile. ‘How glad I am. The waiting is over. I wonder when we shall see it, Maria.’
Maria said slowly: ‘It is not good that it should come before its time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t quite know. But I think they are worried about it.’
The girls sat silently sewing, alert for every sound.
Then suddenly they heard a woman sobbing. Catalina ran to the door, and saw one of the attendants hurrying through the apartments.
‘What has happened?’ she cried.
But the woman did not answer; she stumbled blindly away. Terrible misgivings came to Catalina then. Was yet another tragedy to befall her family?
Catalina stood at the door of her mother’s private apartment.
‘The Queen is not to be disturbed,’ said one of the two attendants who guarded the door.
Catalina stood desolate.
‘I must see my mother,’ she said firmly.
The attendants shook their heads.
‘Is she alone?’ asked Catalina.
‘That is so.’
‘She is mourning the dead baby, is she not? She will want me with her.’
The attendants looked at each other and, taking advantage of their momentary inattention, Catalina calmly opened the door and walked into her mother’s apartment. The attendants were so astonished that the little Princess, who was usually so decorous in her behaviour, should do such a thing, that the door was closing on her before they realised what had happened.
Catalina sped across the room to that small antechamber where she knew her mother would be kneeling before her altar.
She went in and quietly knelt beside her.
The Queen looked at her small daughter, and the tears which before had remained unshed began to flow.
For a few minutes they wept in silence and prayed for strength to control their grief.
Then the Queen rose to her feet and held out her hand to Catalina.
‘I had to come to you,’ cried Catalina. ‘It was not the fault of the attendants. They tried to stop me. But I was so frightened.’
‘I am glad you came,’ said the Queen. ‘We should always be together in sorrow and in happiness, my darling.’
She led Catalina into the main apartment and sat on her bed, drawing her daughter down beside her. She smoothed the child’s hair and said: ‘You know that there is no baby.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘It never lived. It never suffered. It was born dead.’
‘Oh, Mother, why … why when it meant so much to us all?’
‘Perhaps because the shock of its father’s death was too much for its mother to bear. In any case – because it was the will of God.’
‘It was cruel … cruel.’
‘Hush, my dearest. You must never question God’s will. You must learn to accept with meekness and fortitude the trials He gives you to bear.’
‘I will try to be as good and strong as you are, Mother.’
‘My child, I fear I am not always strong. We must cease to grieve. We must think of comforting poor Margaret.’
‘She will not die?’
‘No, we think she will live. So you see it is not all tragedy. As for me, I have lost my son and my grandchild. But I have my daughters, have I not? I have my Isabella who may well give me a grandchild before long. I have my Juana who I am sure will have children. Then there is my Maria and my little Catalina. You see I am well blessed with many cherished possessions. They will bring me such happiness as will make up for this great tragedy I have suffered.’
‘Oh, Mother, I hope they will.’ Catalina thought of her sisters: Isabella who had dreamed she heard the voices cursing in her dreams, Juana, whose wildness had always caused the greatest anxiety. Maria? Herself? What would happen to them?
In the Brussels Palace Juana heard the news from Spain. It came in an affectionate letter from her mother. A terrible tragedy had befallen their House. The heir had died only a few months after his marriage, and all their hopes had been centred on a child of this union who was stillborn.
‘Write me some good news of yourself,’ Isabella begged her daughter. ‘That will do more than anything to cheer me.’
The letter fluttered from Juana’s hand. The troubles in Madrid seemed far away, and she had almost forgotten that she had ever lived there, so completely absorbed was she by the gay life of Brussels.
This was the way to live. Here balls, banquets, dancing, festivities were what mattered. Philip implied this and Philip was always right.
Juana could not think of her handsome husband without being overcome by many mingling emotions. Chief of these was her desire for him; she could scarcely bear to be absent from him and, when she was in his presence, she could not keep her eyes from watching him or her hands from reaching out to touch him.
This had amused him in the beginning. He had quickly initiated her into the erotic experiences which made up the greater part of his life, and she had followed eagerly, for everything that he did seemed wonderful and she was eager to share in it.
Some of her retinue who had come with her into Flanders warned her. ‘Be a little more discreet, Highness. Do not be over eager for his embraces.’
But there was no restraint in Juana. There never had been; she could not begin learning, now that she was face to face with the greatest emotional experience of her life.
She wanted Philip with her every hour of the day and night. She could not hide the burning desire which was like a frenzy. Philip laughed at it. It had been very amusing at first.
Later she feared he was less amused and had begun to avoid her.
There were the mistresses. She could never be sure who was his mistress of the moment. It might be some little lace-maker whom he had seen on his journeys through the dominions, fancied and set up near the Palace that he might visit her. It might be – and so often was – one of the ladies of the Court.
When she saw these women Juana felt near to murder. She wanted to mutilate them in some way so that they would be hideous instead of desirable in his eyes.
There were nights when he did not visit her; when she knew that he was with some mistress. Then she would lie, biting her pillow, weeping passionate tears, giving vent to uncontrolled laughter, forgetting everything but her desire for Philip, the most handsome man in the world.
One of the Flemish women had whispered slyly: ‘He takes his mistress. There are some who would say, if Your Highness took a lover, that you were provoked to it. Perhaps he would.’
‘Take a lover!’ cried Juana. ‘You do not know Philip. What other man could ever satisfy or please me in the smallest way since I have known him!’
They were beginning to say in the Brussels Palace that Juana’s wildness was alarming because it was not merely the fury of a jealous wife. It went deeper than that.
They avoided her eyes whenever possible.
Juana was now finding it difficult to think of her mother far away in Madrid, and this tragedy which had befallen her family. She stared into space trying to remember them all, those wearying days of sitting in the nursery stitching at some tiresome piece of needlework. She remembered being beaten because she had run away when it was time to go to confession.
She laughed aloud at the vague memory. All that was past. Philip would never beat her because she had failed to go to confession. Philip had not a great deal of respect for priests, and life in Brussels was very different from that in Madrid. There was not the same solemnity, the wearying religious services. The rule in Brussels was: Enjoy yourself. The Flemish people, lacking the dignity of the Spaniards, believed they had been put on this Earth to enjoy themselves. It was a doctrine which appealed to Juana.
Everything about Flanders appealed to Juana. It must be so, because Philip was in Flanders.
She was not sure now whether Philip would regard this news from Spain as a tragedy; and if he did not, how could she?
There was another side to Philip’s nature besides his sensuality and his love of gaiety. He was not the son of Maximilian for nothing. He was proud of the possessions which were now his and those greater ones which he would inherit. He had wanted Juana for his bride, before he had seen her, because she was the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand and great good could come to him through union with such an heiress.
Philip was ambitious.
He had been rather pleased, she knew, when he had heard of Juan’s death, and not so pleased when he had heard that there was to be a child.
‘By God, Juana,’ he had cried, ‘now that your brother is dead, who will be the Spanish heir? Tell me that. That sickly sister of yours? The Aragonese are a fierce people. They do not believe women should be their rulers. And quite right too, my love. Quite right too. Do you not agree with me?’
‘Oh yes, Philip.’
He slapped her buttocks jauntily, because it amused him on occasions to treat the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella as though she were a tavern girl.
‘That’s a good girl, Juana. Always agree with your husband. That makes him pleased with you.’
She held her face up to his and murmured his name.
‘By God, woman,’ said Philip, ‘you are insatiable. Later perhaps … if you are a good girl. Listen carefully to what I have to say. If it had not been for this child your brother’s wife is to have, you and I would be Prince and Princess of Castile.’
‘Philip, you would be very pleased then?’
‘I should be very pleased with my little Juana. But now I am not so pleased. If this child is a son … well, then, my little Juana does not bring the same gifts to her doting husband, does she?’
He had caressed her mildly and then had pushed her from him in order to go to one of his mistresses, she felt sure, because he was not pleased with her. A child had been conceived and therefore Philip was not pleased with his wife.
She had cursed Margaret for her fruitfulness. Such a short time married, and already to have conceived a child which Philip did not want! How tiresome of her.
But now there was this news and Philip would be delighted. She must go to him at once.
Before she could leave her apartment there was a knock on her door and a priest entered.
Juana frowned, but this man was Fray Matienzo, a confidential priest whom her mother had sent to Flanders to watch over her daughter; and although Juana was far from Isabella she still remembered the awe in which even she had held her mother.
So she stood impatiently waiting for what the priest had to say to her.
‘Your Highness,’ he began, ‘I have received a letter from the Queen in which she tells me this tragic news which she also imparts to you. The Queen will be very sad.’
Juana said nothing; she was not even thinking of the priest nor of her mother. She was seeing Philip’s fair flushed face, listening to her while she told him the news. She would throw herself into his arms, and he would be so pleased with her that he would forget all those big flaxen-haired women who seemed to give him so much pleasure. He would give all his attention to her.
‘I thought,’ said Fray Matienzo, ‘that you might wish to pray with me for comfort.’
Juana looked bewildered. ‘I do not wish to pray,’ she said. ‘I must go at once. I have something important to do.’
The priest laid a hand on her arm.
‘The Queen, your mother, asks me questions about you.’
‘Then pray answer them,’ she retorted.
‘I fear they might cause her pain if I told her the truth.’
‘What’s this?’ said Juana half-heartedly.
‘If I told her that you did not worship as frequently as you did in Spain, if I told her that you did not go to confession …’
