Daughters of Spain

Chapter VI 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 …’

‘I do these things as frequently as my husband does.’

‘That will not serve you as an excuse before God or your mother.’

Juana snapped her fingers; frenzied lights were beginning to show in her eyes. He was detaining her against her will; he was denying her her pleasure. What if Philip heard this news from others before she herself could impart it?

She threw off the priest’s detaining hand.

‘Go your way,’ she said angrily, ‘and let me go mine.’

‘Highness, I implore you to dismiss the French priests who surround you now. Their ways are not ours.’

‘I prefer them,’ she answered.

‘Unless you listen to me, unless you mind your ways, I shall have no alternative but to write to your mother and tell her that you have no true piety.’

Juana snarled at him between her teeth: ‘Then do so. Do what you will, you interfering old fool. I am no longer of Spain. I belong to Flanders and Philip!’

She laughed wildly and ran from the room.

Those attendants who saw her looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. There was little ceremony at the Flemish Court, but no one behaved in quite the same manner as the Infanta Juana. She was more than wild, she was strange, they said.

She found Philip in his apartments. He was sprawled on a sofa, his handsome face flushed. One golden-haired woman sat on a stool at his feet; she was lying back against him, embracing his leg. Another woman, also with brilliant flaxen hair, was fanning him. Someone was strumming on a lute, and men and women were dancing.

It was what Juana had seen many times before. If she could have had her way she would have taken one of those women by her flaxen hair, and have her bound and beaten. Then she would turn her attention to the other.

But she must calm herself. They might flaunt their long flaxen locks which fell over their big bare bosoms, but this was an occasion when she had something more to offer, and she was going to calm herself so thoroughly that she would not act foolishly this time.

She stood on the threshold of the room. No one took any notice of her. The dancers went on dancing and the women went on caressing Philip.

Juana screeched at the top of her voice: ‘Silence!’

This had the desired effect. There was complete stillness in the room and, before Philip could command them all to go on as they were, Juana cried: ‘I have important news from Spain.’

Philip rose to his feet without warning. The woman at his feet toppled off her stool and fell to the floor. Juana wanted to laugh exultantly as she watched her, but she controlled herself.

She waved the letter from her mother and, seeing it, Philip’s eyes gleamed with interest.

‘Leave me with my wife,’ he ordered.

Juana stood aside, watching them file out. She did not look at the two women. She was determined not to lose control of her emotions. She was about to have him to herself and she was happy.

‘What news?’ he demanded. ‘What news?’

She smiled at him with all the love she felt for him in her eyes. She knew that she was about to give him something which he greatly desired.

‘The child is stillborn,’ she said.

For a few seconds he did not speak. She watched the slow smile cross his face. Then he brought his clenched fist down on to his thigh. He took her cheek between his thumb and forefinger and pressed it so tightly that she wanted to scream with the joy of it. Whether it was pain or caresses he gave her she did not care. It was enough that his hands were upon her.

‘Show me the letter,’ he said gruffly, and snatched it from her.

She watched him reading it. It was all there, just as he wished it to be.

Then his hands fell to his sides and he began to laugh.

‘You are pleased, Philip?’ she said, as though to remind him that he owed this to her.

‘Oh yes, my love, I am pleased. Are you?’

‘I am always pleased when you are.’

‘That’s true, I know. Why Juana, do you see what this means?’

‘That my sister Isabella is now the heir of Spain.’

‘Your sister Isabella! They will not have a woman to rule them, I tell you.’

‘But my parents have no more sons. And Isabella is the eldest.’

‘I ought to beat you for not being born first, Juana.’ She laughed wildly. The thought did not displease her. She only asked that she should have his undivided attention. Instead he went on: ‘I will show you what an indulgent husband I am. You and I shall be Prince and Princess of Castile and, when your mother is no more, Castile will be ours.’

‘Philip, it should be as you say. But they will remind me that I am not the eldest.’

‘Do you think they will want the King of Portugal to rule Spain? Not they.’

‘Not they!’ she cried. And she wondered whether they would have the heir of Maximilian either. But this was not for her to say. Philip was pleased with her.

He took her in his arms and danced her round the room. She clung to him madly.

‘You will stay with me for a while?’ she pleaded. He put his head on one side and considered her. ‘Please, Philip! Please, Philip!’ she pleaded. ‘The two of us … alone …’

He nodded slowly and drew her to the couch.

Her passion still had the power to amuse him.

He would not stay long with her though, and was soon calling back his friends.

He made Juana stand on the couch beside him.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘you have strangers among you, strangers of great importance. You must each come forward and pay homage to the Prince and Princess of Castile.’

It was a game similar to those they often played. Each person came to the couch and bowed low, kissing first the hand of Philip and then Juana’s.

Juana was so happy. She suddenly remembered with unusual vividness her mother’s apartment at Madrid, and she wondered what her parents and her sisters would say if they could see her and Philip now – clever Philip and his wife who had, without their consent, made themselves the heir and heiress of Castile.

She was so amused that she burst into laughter. The restraint of the last hour had been too much for her, and she could not stop laughing.

Philip looked at her coldly. He remembered her frenzied passion, her great desire for him – and he shuddered.

For the first time the thought occurred to him: I know why she is so strange. She is mad.