Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean (книга регистрации .txt) 📗

“I hope,” she said, “that I shall be able to play to the company tonight.”

How eagerly they sought the attention of the crowd, these Tudors, mused Katharine.

Mary was a beautiful girl, now about ten years old, wilful, wayward but so fascinating that even the King’s face softened when he looked at her; and, when he was irritable with her, all knew that his rheumatism must be particularly painful.

“They will surely ask you to do so,” Katharine assured her.

“I hope I may play while Henry dances. I should like that.”

“Doubtless you will if you ask that you may.”

“I shall ask,” said Mary. “Did you know that we are to return to Richmond on the eleventh?”

“Indeed no. I had not heard.”

“You are to return with me. It is my father’s order.”

Katharine felt numb with disappointment. Each day she had waited for the arrival of Juana. It was now the eighth of the month, and if she left on the eleventh she had only three more days in which to wait for her sister—and even if she came now they would have only a short time together.

She said nothing. It was no use protesting. At least she had learned the folly of that.

Oh, let her come soon, she prayed. Then she began to wonder why Juana was not with them and what mystery this was surrounding her sister who was Queen of Castile and yet was lacking in authority. Why, Juana had taken the place of their mother, and none would have dared dictate to Isabella what she must do—not even Ferdinand.

In the great hall that day there was feasting, and Katharine danced the Spanish dances with some of her women. The women enjoyed it; and Francesca in particular was very gay. After this, thought Katharine, they will long more than ever to return to Spain.

Mary played the lute while her father watched her fondly, and Prince Henry danced vigorously to loud applause. When he returned to his seat his eyes were on Katharine. Was she applauding as loudly as the rest?

He seemed satisfied; and Katharine noticed throughout the evening that his eyes were often fixed upon her, brooding, speculating.

She wondered what he was thinking; but she soon forgot to wonder. Her thoughts continually strayed to Juana and she was asking herself: What is this mystery in my sister’s life? Is she deliberately being kept from me?

* * *

ON THE TENTH of February, one day before that on which, at the King’s command, Katharine was due to leave with the Princess Mary, Juana arrived at Windsor.

She was carried into the castle in her litter, and Katharine was among those who waited to receive her.

Katharine looked in dismay at the woman her sister had become. Could that be young Juana, the gay—too gay—girl who had left Spain to marry this man who now obsessed her? Her hair was lustreless, her great eyes were melancholy; it seemed that all that vitality which had been so much a part of her had disappeared.

She was received with ceremony. First the King took her hand and kissed it; then the Prince of Wales bowed low in greeting.

“We have missed you at our revels,” said Henry.

Juana could not understand, but she smiled graciously.

Then Katharine was face to face with her sister. She knelt before her not forgetting, even at such a moment, that she was in the presence of the Queen of Castile.

Then the sisters looked into each other’s faces and both were astonished at what they saw. Juana’s little sister had become a tragic woman, no less than she had herself.

“Juana…oh, how happy I am to see you at last!” whispered Katharine.

“My sister! Why, you are no longer a child.”

“I am a widow now, Juana.”

“My poor, sweet sister!”

That was all. There were others to be greeted; there were the formalities to be considered; but even while these were in progress Katharine noticed how hungrily her sister’s eyes followed the debonair figure of her husband, and she thought: What torture it must be to love a man as Juana loves him!

How brief was the time they could spend together. Had it been arranged, Katharine wondered, that her sister should arrive the day before she was to leave for Richmond, so that they might have a glimpse of each other and nothing more?

Yet at last when they were alone together Katharine was conscious of the rapid passing of time. She wanted to hold it back. There was so much to say, so many questions to ask that she, in fear of not having time to say half, was temporarily unable to think of any of them.

Juana was not helpful; she sat silent as though she were far away from the Castle at Windsor.

“Juana,” cried Katharine desperately, “you are unhappy. Why, my sister? Your husband is in good health and you love him dearly. You are Queen of Castile. Are you unhappy, Juana, because you can only be Queen of Castile since our mother is no more?”

“He loves me,” said Juana in a low melancholy voice, “because I am Queen of Castile.” Then she laughed, and Katharine was filled with uneasiness by the sound of that laughter. “If I were not Queen of Castile he would throw me out into the streets to beg my bread tomorrow.”

“Oh, Juana, surely he is not such a monster.”

She smiled. “Oh yes, he is a monster…the handsomest, finest monster that the world ever knew.”

“You love him dearly, Juana.”

“He is my life. Without him I should be dead. There is nothing in the world for me…except him.”

“Juana, our mother would not have you say such things, or think such thoughts. You are the Queen even as she was. She would expect you to love Castile, to work for Castile, as she did. She loved us dearly; she loved our father; but Castile came first.”

“So it would be with Philip. He will love Castile.”

“He is not master in Castile. Even our father was not that. You know how our mother always ruled, never forgetting for one moment that she was the Queen.”

“It is the women,” sighed Juana. “How I hate women. And in particular golden-haired women…big-breasted, big-hipped. That is the Flanders women, Catalina. How I loathe them! I could tear them all apart. I would throw them to the soldiers…the lowest of the soldiers…and say: They are the true enemies of the Queen of Castile.”

“Our father was not always faithful to our mother. It grieved her, I know. But she did not let it interfere with the affection she bore him.”

“Our mother! What did she know of love?”

“She knew much of love. Do you not remember her care for us? I verily believe that, when we left her, she suffered even more than we did.”

“Love!” cried Juana. “What do you know of love? I mean love like this which I have for him. There is nothing like it, I tell you.” Juana had stood up; she began beating her hands against her stiffly embroidered bodice. “You cannot understand, Catalina. You have never known it. You have never known Philip.”

“But why are you so unhappy?”

“Do you not know? I thought the whole world knew. Because of those others. They are always there. How many women have shared his bed since he came to England? Do you know? Of course you do not. Even he will have forgotten.”

“Juana, you distress yourself.”

“I am in continual distress…except when he is with me. He says he does his duty. I am often pregnant. I am happiest when I am not, because he always remembers that I should become so.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Juana, please do not talk so.”

“How else should I talk? He went on in advance of me. Can you guess why? Because there were women with whom he wished to amuse himself. I tell you, I hate women…I hate…hate…hate women.”

Juana had begun to rock herself to and fro, and Katharine was afraid her shouts would be heard in those apartments of the Castle near her own.

She tried to soothe her sister; she put her arms about her, and Juana immediately clung to her, rocking Katharine with her.