He came to the Palace of Arcos one day and went straight to those apartments where Juana was sitting, staring moodily at the coffin of her husband. Her hair, which had not been dressed for many months, hung about her haggard face; her face and hands were dirty, and her clothes hung in filthy rags about her gaunt figure.
Ferdinand looked at her in horror. There was indeed no need to pretend that she was mad.
Undoubtedly she must be removed to Tordesillas. He knew that there was a plot afoot to displace him and set up young Charles as King. As Charles was now nine, this arrangement would give certain ambitious men the power they needed; but Ferdinand was determined that the Regency should remain in his hands, and he would be uneasy until Juana was his prisoner in some place where he could keep her well guarded.
“My daughter,” he said as he approached her—he could not bring himself to touch her. As well touch a beggar or gipsy; they would probably be more wholesome—“I am anxious on your account.”
She did not look at him.
“Last time I was here,” he went on, “I did not please you. But you must realize that it is necessary for the people to see little Ferdinand; and what I did was for the best.”
Still she did not answer. It was true then that, although she had raged when he had taken her son, a few days later she had completely forgotten the boy. There was no real place in that deranged mind for anyone but the dead man in the coffin.
Ferdinand went on: “This place is most unhealthy. You cannot continue to live here in this…squalor. I must insist that you leave here. The castle of Tordesillas has been made ready to receive you. It is worthy of you. The climate is good. There you will recover your health.”
She came to life suddenly. “I shall not go. I shall stay here. You cannot make me go. I am the Queen.”
He answered quietly: “This place is surrounded by my soldiers. If you do not go of your own free will, I shall be obliged to force you to go. You must prepare to leave at once.”
“So you are making me a prisoner!” she said.
“The soldiers are here to guard you. All that is done is for your good.”
“You are trying to take him away from me,” she screamed.
“Take the coffin with you. There is no reason why you should not continue to mourn in Tordesillas, as you do in Arcos.”
She was silent for a while. Then she said: “I need time to prepare myself.”
“A day,” he said. “You can wash yourself, have your hair dressed, change into suitable clothes in a day.”
“I never travel by day.”
“Then travel by night.”
She sat still, nodding.
And the next night she left Arcos. She had been washed; her wild hair had been set into some order; she wore a gown suited to her rank; and, taking little Catalina in her litter, she set out with her followers; as usual, beside the Queen’s litter, so that it was never out of her sight, went the hearse drawn by four horses.
Through the nights she travelled and, as the third day was beginning to break, the party arrived at the old bridge across the Douro. There Juana paused to look at the castle which was so like a fortress. Immediately opposite this castle was the convent of Santa Clara, and in the cloisters of this convent she allowed the coffin to be placed. Then from the windows of her apartments she could look across to the coffin, and she spent the greater part of her days at her window watching over her dead. Each night she left the castle for the convent, where she embraced the corpse of Philip the Handsome.
So dragged on the long years of mourning, and each day she grew a little more strange, a little more remote from the world; only in one thing was she constant—her love for the handsome philanderer who had played such a large part in making her what she was.
King Henry VIII
KATHARINE HAD NOW LOST ALL HOPE. HER AFFAIRS WERE IN the direst disorder. Fuensalida had quarrelled openly with Henry, and when the ambassador had gone to Court he had been told that the King had no wish to see him.
Fuensalida, haughty, arrogant and tactless, had even tried to force an entry, with the result that he had suffered the extreme indignity of being seized by guards and put outside the Palace precincts.
Never had an ambassador been submitted to such shame, which clearly indicated that Henry had no respect for Ferdinand’s suggestions. Indeed Henry was boasting that he would marry Mary and Charles without the help of Spain.
Katharine was with her maids of honor when the news was brought to her of Puebla’s death. This, she had at last come to realize, was one of the greatest blows which could befall her, for now there was no one to work for her in England but the incompetent Fuensalida.
“This is the last blow,” she said. “I fear now that there is no hope.”
“But what will become of us?” asked Maria de Salinas.
“Doubtless we shall be sent back to Spain,” put in Maria de Rojas hopefully.
Katharine said nothing. She realized that to be sent back to Spain was the last thing she wanted. She would go back, humiliated, the unwanted Infanta, the widow who was yet a virgin. Had ever any Princess of Spain been so unfortunate as she was? There was only one dignified course left to her, and that was marriage with the Prince of Wales.
That was hopeless, for the King had shown so clearly that he would not allow the marriage to take place. Whenever she saw the Prince he had kindly smiles for her, which was comforting, for his importance grew daily, one might say hourly.
Katharine noticed that Francesca was not with them.
“Where is Francesca?” she asked.
“I have not seen her, Highness,” answered Maria de Salinas.
“Now that I recall it,” pursued Katharine, “she seems to absent herself often. What does she do when she is not with us?”
No one could answer that; which was strange because Francesca had been inclined to talk a great deal—often it seemed too much—of her personal affairs.
“I shall ask her when she returns,” said Katharine; and then they fell to discussing what would happen when Ferdinand learned that his ambassador had been refused admittance to the Palace.
Nothing would happen, thought Katharine wretchedly. Looking back over the years since Arthur’s death, she saw that her position had changed but little. She could go on living in penury and uncertainty for the rest of her days.
“HIGHNESS!” It was Maria de Rojas, and her voice was trembling with excitement.
Katharine had left her maids of honor an hour before because she wished to be alone; she had felt she could no longer endure their chatter, which alternated between the desire to raise her hopes by improbable changes of fortune and sighing for their native land.
She looked at Maria quickly, eager to know what had happened to change her mood.
“This has been delivered at the Palace. It is for you.”
Katharine took the letter which Maria was holding out to her. “It is in Francesca’s handwriting,” said Maria.
“Francesca!”
Katharine’s heart began to beat fast as she opened the letter, and she hastily scanned the words without taking them in the first time. Then she read it again. It was brief and to the point.
Francesca would never return. She had married Francesco Grimaldi, the banker from Genoa.
“It is…impossible!” breathed Katharine.
Maria was at her side; forgetting all ceremony, all discipline as she looked over Katharine’s shoulder and read the words which the newly married bride had written.
“Francesca…married! And to a banker! Oh, how could she? How could she! A banker! What will her family say? Highness, what will you do?”