He had now fallen into a lethargy from which it was impossible to waken him; only now and then would he groan and put a hand to his side, which indicated that he suffered pain.
On the morning of the 25th September of that year, 1506, black spots appeared on his body. The doctors were baffled, but there were strong suspicions now throughout the palace that Philip had drunk something more than water on that day when, overheated by the sport, he had asked for a drink.
There were whispers now of: “Who brought the drink?” None could be sure. Perhaps Philip remembered, but he was too weak to say.
Philip had many enemies, and the greatest of these was Ferdinand, who had been forced to surrender his rights in Castile. Ferdinand was far away, but men like Ferdinand did not do such deeds themselves; they found others to do the work for them.
It was remembered that, shortly before Philip had been taken ill, Ferdinand’s envoy, Luis Ferrer, had come to Burgos. But it was well not to talk too much of this, for, if Philip died and Juana were proved mad, then Ferdinand would undoubtedly become the Regent of Castile.
So it was only in secret that people asked themselves who had poisoned Philip the Handsome. In public it was said that he was suffering sorely from a fever.
HE WAS DEAD. Juana could not believe it. The doctors had said so, but it must not be.
He was so young, only twenty-eight years of age, and he had been so full of vigor. It was not possible.
They were surrounding her, telling her of their sorrow, but she did not hear them; she saw only him, not as he was now, drained of all life, but young, handsome, mocking, full of the joy of being alive.
He is not dead, she said to herself. I will never believe that. I will never leave him. He shall stay with me always.
Then she thought: I can keep him to myself now. I can send them all away. I am the ruler of Castile, and there is none to stand beside me and try to snatch my crown from me.
They were weeping; they were telling her they suffered with her. How foolish they were! As if they could suffer as she suffered!
She looked regal now. There was no sign of wildness in her face. She was calmer than any of them.
“He shall be carried to the hall, and there he shall lie in state,” she said. “Wrap him in his ermine robes and put a jewelled cap on his head. He will be beautiful in death as he has been in life.”
They obeyed her. They wrapped him in his ermine robe, which was lined with rich brocade; they placed the jewelled cap on his head and they laid a diamond cross on his breast. He was put on a catafalque covered with cloth of gold and carried down to the hall. There a throne had been set up and he was seated upon this so that he looked as though he were still alive. Then the candles were lighted and the friars sang their dirges in the hall of death.
Juana lay at his feet, embracing his legs; and there she remained through the night.
And when the body was embalmed and placed in its lead coffin she refused to leave it.
“I shall never leave him again,” she cried. “In life he left me so often; in death he never shall.”
Then it seemed that the madness was with her once more.
THEY CARRIED HER to her apartment from which all light was shut out. She was exhausted, for she would neither sleep nor eat. It was only because she was weak that they were able to remove her from the coffin. For several days she sat in her darkened room, refusing all food; she did not take off her clothes; she spoke to no one.
“Assuredly,” said all those of her household, “her sanity has left her.”
While she remained thus shut away, the coffin was taken from the hall of the Palace of Burgos to the Cartuja de Miraflores and, when she heard that this had been done, she hurriedly left her darkened room.
Now she was the Queen again, preparing to follow the coffin with all speed, giving orders that mourning should be made and that this was to resemble the garb of a nun, because she would be remote for ever from the world which did not contain her Philip.
When she arrived at the church she found that the coffin had already been placed in a vault, and she ordered that it should immediately be brought out.
She would have no disobedience. She reminded all that she was the Queen of Castile and expected obedience. So the coffin was brought from the vault.
Then she cried: “Remove the cerecloths from the feet and the head. I would see him again.”
And when this was done, she kissed those dead lips again and again and held the feet against her breast.
“Highness,” whispered one of her women, “you torture yourself.”
“What is there for me but torture when he is no longer with me?” she asked. “I would rather have him thus than not at all.”
And she would not leave the corpse of her husband, but stayed there, kissing and fondling him, as she had longed to during his life.
She would only leave after she had given strict orders that the coffin should not be closed. She would come again the next day and the next, and for as long as the coffin remained in this place she would come to kiss her husband and hold his dead body in her arms.
And so she did. Arriving each day from the Palace of Burgos, there she would remain by the coffin, alternately staring at that dead figure in the utmost melancholy, and seizing it in her arms in a frantic passion.
“It is true,” said those who watched her. “She is mad…. This has proved it.”
Katharine, The Ambassadress
AFTER HER MEETING WITH JUANA, KATHARINE REALIZED that she could hope for no help from her own people. Her father was immersed in his own affairs, and indeed was far less able to help her by sending the remainder of her dowry than he had been when her mother was alive. As for Juana, she had no thought of anything but her own tragic obsession with her husband.
That month had arrived during which, Katharine believed, she would know what her fate in England was to be.
Her maids of honor chatted together about that important day, the twenty-ninth; she listened to them and did not reprove them. She knew they would talk in secret if not before her.
“He will be fifteen on the twenty-ninth.”
“It is the very month, this very year.”
“Then we shall see.”
“When they are married it will make all the difference to our state. Oh, would it not be wonderful to have a new gown again!”
Katharine broke in on their conversation. “You are foolish to hope,” she said. “The Prince was betrothed to me, but that was long ago. Do you not realize that if we were to be married we should have heard of it long ere this? There would surely be great preparations for the marriage of the Prince of Wales.”
“It may be that the marriage will be announced,” said Francesca. “Mayhap they are saving the announcement, that it may be made on his fifteenth birthday.”
Katharine shook her head. “Does the King of England treat me as his future daughter-in-law?”
“No, but after the announcement he might.”
“You are living in dreams,” said Katharine.
She looked at those faces which had been so bright and were now often clouded by frustration and disappointment.
She knew that the betrothal of herself and Henry would be forgotten, as so many similar betrothals had been, and that his fifteenth birthday would pass without any reference to the marriage which was to have taken place on that day.
Katharine caught the despair of her maids in waiting, and she sent for Dr. de Puebla.
The doctor arrived, and the sight of him made her shudder with disgust. He looked so shabby; he seemed to wear a perpetually deprecating expression, which was probably due to the fact that he was continually apologizing to Henry for Ferdinand, and to Katharine for his inability to improve her lot. He was infirm nowadays and almost crippled; he could not walk or ride the distance from his humble lodgings in the Strand to the Court, so travelled in a litter. He was in constant pain from the gout and, since he had received no money from Ferdinand for a very long time, he was obliged to live on the little which came in from his legal business. This was not much, for Englishmen were not eager to consult a Spaniard and he had to rely on Spaniards in England. He dined out when he could and, when he could not, he did so as cheaply as possible; and he was a great deal shabbier than Katharine and her maids of honor.