Jean Plaidy - To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York Страница 26

That made Margaret laugh still louder. “You marry. . . . That won’t be for years. I am to be married soon.”

“Into Scotland. It is a land of barbarians.”

“I shall be the Queen of Scotland.”

“I hate the Scots,” declared Henry.

“You will have to learn to love them when they are part of our family . . . through this marriage.”

“At least,” said Henry his eyes narrowed to slits, “I shall be grateful to the King of Scotland for taking you away.”

“And I shall be grateful to him for relieving me of your company.”

“Please don’t quarrel.” Mary had slipped her hand into that of Henry. “It’s so exciting . . . with Arthur’s wedding and then Margaret’s . . . don’t spoil it, Henry, please. . . .”

He stooped and kissed the beautiful little face turned up to his. Mary flushed with pleasure and Henry’s good humor was restored.

“Come with me, Mary,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about what I shall do when the Infanta comes to London. I am to lead her in. You may be able to see me. Let’s leave Margaret . . . and we’ll sit together . . . and talk.”

Mary nodded. Margaret watched them with a curl of her lips.

“Boast away,” she shouted. “All the boasting in the world won’t make you the Prince of Wales. You’ll never be the King . . . though that’s what you want. You’re wicked. You wish Arthur was dead . . . yes, you do . . . yes you do. . . .”

Henry turned and looked at her; for once his rage was cold rather than hot.

“How dare you say such a wicked thing!” he cried.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Margaret, suddenly contrite. It was unlucky to talk of death outright in such a way. Many times she had heard the vague comments of the attendants, the innuendos about Arthur’s not making old bones . . . but that was different.

She should not have mentioned Arthur’s dying. What if Henry told their parents!

Henry said: “Come on Mary. We will leave this wicked girl alone.”

Margaret, subdued, muttered something and turned away and Henry and Mary went to the window seat and sat down.

He started to tell her what a glorious pageant it would be. He described others he had seen but this one would be different because he would be at the center of it.

Suddenly Mary said in a whisper: “If Arthur died would you marry the Infanta, Henry?”

“Hush,” he said. “You must not speak of death.”

Then he went on to describe what he thought the wedding would be like and when he did so he was not seeing Arthur as the bridegroom, but himself, miraculously grown a little older, as old as Arthur . . . old enough to be a bridegroom.

The picture made him very excited. It was nonsense, of course, just a dream, a fantasy; but it was very enjoyable.

And oddly enough he could not dismiss it from his mind.

When the Spanish Infanta stepped ashore at Plymouth with her duenna beside her, she was warmly received by the dignitaries of Plymouth. They had been warned of her arrival and had been awaiting it for several days and when the ship appeared on the horizon the call had gone up: “The Spanish Princess is here.”

The King had given orders that she was to be royally entertained. He would be sending Lord Brook the steward of the royal palace to look after her; he himself could not be expected to make the three-week journey to Plymouth, but he was determined that she should be entertained in accordance with her rank and that her parents should have nothing to complain of in the treatment she received in her new country.

Catalina herself was bewildered. It had been a frightening journey although she had set off from Granada in May and had not embarked at Corunna until August; but even then the ship in which she had set out had been forced back to the coast of Castile because of gales and storms. She had been so ill when she landed that she had not been able to set out again until September. Then her father had ordered that the finest ship he owned—one of three hundred tons—should be put at her disposal. This was a great deal more comfortable than the previous vessel and on the second of October when Plymouth was sighted, Catalina felt that she had been traveling for months.

“Catalina,” her mother had said, “you will have to learn the language of your new country and you will no longer be called Catalina. In English it is Katharine. But what is a name? You will still be my good Catalina whatever they call you.”

Was it so important to change a name? Only because it was a symbol. Everything would be different now. She had to learn. She had to be a credit to her parents. She had been told that often enough.

How desolate she had been when she stood on deck watching the green land come nearer! Only her strict upbringing had prevented her from turning to Doña Elvira Manuel and begging to be taken home to her mother.

What foolishness that had been! She had left Spain forever. Whatever anyone had said to comfort her she knew that and the fear that she might never see again her beloved mother was what hurt her most.

She had known for a long time—since she was ten years old and she was now sixteen—that it had had to happen. A similar fate had overtaken her sisters Maria and Juana. They had left Spain—lost to their home forever. Her eldest sister Isabella and her adored brother Juan had been even more irrevocably dealt with for Death had taken them.

How often had she asked herself during that long and exhausting journey why life had to be so cruel. If only time could stand still, and they remain children, all happy together, for they had been such a happy family and it was their mother who had made them so. She had loved them all dearly and if they had—every one of them—been in awe of her, they had loved her with a devotion which had made them desperately unhappy to leave her.

People were crowding round her. They were speaking and she could not understand what they were saying, but she knew these smiling cheering crowds were telling her that they liked her and that she was welcome on their shores.

She was taken into a small mansion and there conducted to an apartment where she might wash and rest before food was served. What she wanted more than anything was to be alone, but she knew that she could not hope to be without her duenna.

“I am thankful we have come through the journey safely,” said Doña Elvira. “I thought it was the end for us . . . but the saints preserved us and before anything else we should give thanks to them.”

Queen Isabella had chosen Doña Elvira to conduct her daughter to England because she had faith in her trustworthiness and religious principles. Elvira watched with hawklike eyes and Catalina knew that if she did anything which was not correct according to strict Spanish etiquette, her mother would hear of it.

“You look too sad,” said Doña Elvira. “You must not look so. It is not good manners. You must show these people that you are happy to be here.”

“But I am not, Doña Elvira. I am most unhappy. I hope the Prince doesn’t like me . . . and sends me home.”

Doña Elvira clicked her tongue in exasperation. “And what grief would that cause your gracious mother? And your father would be angry and only send you back again and then we should have to face those terrible seas once more.”

“It is just that I keep thinking of the past . . . when I was little . . . when we were in the nursery together . . . Juan, Maria and Juana . . .”

“Childhood does not last forever.”

“They have all gone, Doña Elvira. . . . My dear dear brother . . .”

“He is with the saints. . . .”

“And Isabella . . . She didn’t want to go back to Portugal. She had married once for state reasons. That should have been enough. It was strange how she was so unhappy about going to Portugal but she loved her husband in time. I think she was fond of both her husbands, though she loved Alfonso most. But Emmanuel was very kind to her and she was grateful for that.”

“That is how it should be. That is how it will be with you, my lady Catalina. But I must call you Katharine now. . . . It is not so easy to say. But we must all learn to change.”

“If that were the only thing one had to learn it would be easy. Katharine seems different. Catalina was the girl who was so happy. When we were young I was so proud, Doña Elvira . . . proud to be the daughter of the Sovereigns who had driven out the Moors and united Castile and Aragon . . .”

“So you should have been . . . and still should be. Never forget who you are, Catalina . . . Katharine.”

“But we soon learned that Spain was more important than any of us. The greatness of Spain. The glory of Spain. That was what mattered. That was why Isabella had to go back to Portugal and marry Emmanuel. . . .”

“Who had loved her ever since she set foot on Portuguese soil to marry Alfonso, and was a good husband to her.”

“But she didn’t want to go back. I remember her sadness so vividly. I was only ten at the time . . . but I remember. They sent her back and she died . . . and now Maria has had to go to marry Emmanuel . . . because friendship with Portugal is important to Spain.”

“Perhaps you should rest. You are talking too much.”

“It relieves me to talk. I must talk to you. These people here don’t speak our language. I wonder what Arthur will be like.”

“He is to be your husband. You will love him because it will be your duty to do so.”

“I wonder if Juana loves her husband.”

“There has been enough of this talk. Now you are going to lie down for twenty minutes. I shall awaken you at the end of that time and you must prepare yourself to meet the important people whom the King will send.”

“Will the King come himself?”

“Of course the King will come. He will want to show how grateful he is to be able to welcome the daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain.”

“I hope they will like me.”

“What nonsense is this! How could they fail to like the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella? Now rest. You are wasting the time in idle talk.”

She allowed her veil to be taken off and lay back on the cool cushions. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the future by looking back over the past.

Did Juana love her husband? She couldn’t stop thinking of her. The truth about Juana had come to her suddenly. It was after one of those distressing scenes in the nursery when Juana had suddenly begun to dance wildly around and climbed onto the table and danced and when their governess tried to stop her she had clung to the arras hanging on the walls, swinging there. Their mother had been called and she had ordered that Juana be seized but none could take her because she kicked at them as they tried, and all the time she was laughing wildly.

Then Queen Isabella had said, “Juana, listen to me.”

And that had made Juana stop laughing.

“Come,” the Queen had gone on quietly. “Come down to me, my darling.”

Then Juana had come down and flung herself into her mother’s arms and her wild laughter was substituted by sobbing, which was as wild.

The Queen had said quietly, “I will take the Infanta to her apartments. Bring one of her potions.” She had led Juana away, but as she left, the Queen had seen the wide frightened eyes of Catalina. She touched her on the head caressingly and passed on.

It had been later when the Queen had sent for her. They were alone together. Those had been the occasions which meant so much to Catalina. Then Queen Isabella was not so much the great Sovereign—greater even than Ferdinand, many said—she was the fond mother.

“Come to me, Catalina,” she had said, holding out her hand and the child had run to her, clinging to her. The Queen had lifted her youngest daughter onto her lap and said: “You were frightened, my child, by what you saw today. Juana is not to blame. She is not wicked. She does not do these things to grieve us. She does them because they are a compulsion . . . do you understand? Sometimes there is a little seed in families which is passed on . . . through the generations. Be kind always to Juana. Do not provoke her. Juana is not the same as we are. My mother suffered from the same affliction. So you see what has happened to Juana has come to her through me. You understand why I wish us to be very, very kind to Juana.”

She had nodded, happy to be nestling close to that great queen who was also her dear mother.

She had never forgotten that. She had never provoked Juana, and had always tried to follow her mother’s wishes and keep Juana quiet.

But even if Juana had been different from the others she still had to play her part. Insane or not she must marry for the glory of Spain; and a grand match indeed had been found for her—no less than the heir of the Hapsburgs, Philip son of Maximilian—and so she would unite the houses of Hapsburg and Spain.

It had been a match which made King Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle, and the alliance had been even stronger when Margaret, Maximilian’s daughter, married Juan.

Dear, dear Juan, who had been so beautiful and so good. No wonder they said of him that he was too good for long life. The angels wanted him for themselves, that was what Catalina had heard someone say. And there had been that terrible time at Salamanca when the town was en fête to welcome Juan and Margaret his bride and the news that Juan was dead had come to them. There seemed no reason . . . except, as they said, that the angels wanted him in Heaven.

Catalina remembered her mother’s grief. She suspected that loving all her children as the Queen did, Juan was her favorite, her beloved son, her only son. That was a melancholy time of mourning. Margaret his new wife was heartbroken because, being Juan, he had already charmed her.

Doña Elvira was at the side of her couch.

“Is it time then?” she said.

“I gave you a little longer, so we must hurry now.”

It was no use thinking of the past. She had to face the future. Catalina was left behind in Spain. Katharine was here . . . in England.

It seemed that they were not to meet the King and Prince Arthur at this stage, but were to begin the journey to London without delay. Doña Elvira was a little put out. She thought that the bridegroom at least should have been waiting at Plymouth to greet his bride.

“I am not sorry,” said Katharine. “It will give me time to know a little of this land . . . and to see the people. . . .”

She was feeling better as the effects of the sea journey were wearing off, and was making an effort to stop grieving for her family and feel an interest in the new sights which presented themselves.

How green was the grass! What a number of trees there were! “It is a beautiful green country,” she said to Elvira. She liked the villages through which they passed—the gabled houses which clustered round the church, the village greens. “Always green,” she said. “It is the color of England.”

It was only when they came to Exeter that she saw crowds again. They had come to look at her, the Spanish Princess, the Queen-to-be. “She is so young,” they said. “Only a child. Well, Arthur is the same. It is better for him to have someone of his own age.”

But they were disappointed because she was veiled and they could not see her face clearly.