Katharine, the Virgin Widow

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.

He was unfortunate inasmuch as he irritated Katharine; she was by nature serene and compassionate, but the little Jew, perhaps because he was her father’s ambassador in a Court where she needed great help, exasperated her almost beyond endurance and she began to feel—wrongly—that, if only she had a man more worthy to represent her father and to work for her, her position would not be so deplorable as it was and had been for most of her stay in England.

“Dr. de Puebla,” said Katharine, as he shuffled towards her and kissed her hand, “have you realized that the fifteenth birthday of the Prince of Wales has now come and gone and there has been no mention of the marriage which was once proposed between us?”

“I fear I did not expect there would be, Highness.”

“What have you done about this matter?”

Puebla spread his hands in a well-remembered gesture. “Highness, there is nothing I can do.”

“Nothing! Are you not here to look after the interests of my father, and are they not mine?”

“Highness, if I could persuade the King of England to this marriage do not doubt that I should do so.”

Katharine turned away because such bitter words rose to her lips, and the sight of the sick little man made her feel ashamed of her anger towards him.

“Is nothing ever going to happen?” she demanded. “How do you think I live?”

“Highness, it is hard for you. It is hard for me. Believe me, I am well acquainted with poverty.”

“It goes on and on and on,” she cried. “There is no way out. If I could return to Spain…”

She stopped. In that moment she had made a discovery. She did not want to return to Spain, because all that she had wished to return to was no more. She had longed for her mother, but Spain no longer contained Isabella. Did she want to be with her father? There had never been any great tenderness between them, because his affection for his children had always been overlaid with hopes of what they could bring him. Maria was in Portugal. Juana had grown strange. Did she want to go to Spain then to be with Juana and her husband, to see their tempestuous relationship, did she want to see that handsome philanderer gradually driving her sister over the edge of sanity?

Spain had nothing for her. What had England? Nothing apart from the dazzling prospect of marriage with the Prince of Wales.

Katharine realized in that moment that she must marry the Prince or remain all her life an outcast from Spain, the unwanted stranger in a foreign land.

She needed brilliant diplomacy to bring about the marriage, and all she had was this shabby, gouty Jew.

He was saying now: “Highness, I have done everything I can. Believe me, I will not spare myself…”

Katharine shook her head and murmured: “Mayhap you do your best, but I like not the way these matters go. You may retire now. Should you become further acquainted with the King’s mind, I pray you come to me, for I am anxious.”

Puebla shuffled out, and he was surprised, when he had left her presence, to find his cheeks were wet.

I am worn out, he said to himself, with all the work which has come to nothing. I suffer pain; I can no longer amuse and entertain. I have outlived my usefulness. That is why old men shed tears.

And, left alone, Katharine wrote to her father. She told him that his ambassador in England was no longer able to work for her good or the good of Spain. She implored him to give this matter his attention and appoint a new ambassador to the Court of the Tudor King, for the sake of Spain and for his daughter, who was beside herself with misery.

EAGERLY SHE AWAITED news from her father. Each day during that summer seemed more trying than the last. The maids of honor did not attempt to hide their dissatisfaction. They were continually longing to be back in Spain.

There were perpetual quarrels in the household, and Katharine almost wished that Doña Elvira was back with them to keep them all in order. Francesca was more restless than the others and she seemed to find a wicked delight in accusing each member of the household of intriguing to keep them in England. There could be no greater sin in the eyes of Francesca.

The fact is, thought Katharine, they need to be married. If Arthur had lived, they would all have worthy husbands now, and rich, full lives.

It seemed to her that each month it was necessary to rifle her store of jewels and plate. She felt guilty when she sold or pawned these pieces, but what could she do? Her expenses had to be met, and disposing of her plate and jewellery was the only means of doing this.

At last news came from Spain, and when she read of the death of Philip she could not help but rejoice.

He was my father’s enemy, she told herself; he turned him from Castile and he would have taken the crown from Juana. She is miserable now, but it is a good thing that he has gone.

She imagined her father’s secret delight, for if Juana were incapable of ruling it was certain that Ferdinand would come back to Castile and the Regency.

She realized what this would mean. Ferdinand would be of more account in Europe than previously, and the manner in which the King of England treated her depended largely on what was happening to her father.

So could she consider this sudden and mysterious death of her handsome brother-in-law good news? She believed she could.

There was a letter from her father in answer to that which she had sent asking for a new ambassador.

“Why should you not be my ambassador?” wrote Ferdinand. “You have been at the English Court for some years. You know their ways; you speak their language. In due course I will send you an ambassador, but in the meantime you may consider yourself as such. Listen to Puebla; he is a clever man, perhaps cleverer than you realize. Be guided by him. He has worked well for Spain and will, I hope, continue to do so.”

When Katharine had stopped reading there was a faint color in her cheeks. She felt more cheered than she had for a long time. Now she would have an interest in life; now she would have more power, and she would try to serve her father faithfully and at the same time bring about a happier state for herself. And how could she achieve such a state? There was one answer: Only by marriage to the Prince of Wales.

THE KING OF ENGLAND requested the pleasure of her company. She went to his apartments, her hopes high, wondering what news he had to impart to her.

He was alone and he received her with graciousness, as though, she believed, he considered her of greater importance than he had when they had last met.

When she had been formally greeted she was allowed to sit in his presence and, cupping his face in his hands, the King said: “This is a matter which I believe I can entrust to your hands more readily than I could to any other.”

“Your Highness delights me,” she answered.

Henry nodded, his lower lip protruded, his expression more pleasant than usual.

“I shall never forget the day when your sister, the Queen of Castile, arrived at Windsor. What grace was hers! What charm!”

Katharine was puzzled. She too would never forget that day, but had been struck more by Juana’s melancholy than her grace and charm.

“I have not forgotten her from that day to this,” said the King. He paused and then went on: “You now act as your father’s ambassador, so I am going to entrust this matter to you. I want you to tell your father that I am asking for the hand of the Queen of Castile.”

Katharine caught her breath in astonishment. Juana…the wife of the King of England! She, who had adored that handsome, golden-haired philanderer, to become the wife of this ageing man with the cold, hard face and the uncertain temper! It was impossible.

But was it? Royal marriages could be incongruous. And if this one were to become fact, she would have her sister in England, the Queen of England. Surely the sister of the Queen of England could not be humiliated. Surely she would be able to live in a state worthy of her relationship to the Queen.

And what joy to have her own sister in England!

Katharine’s busy thoughts were halted suddenly. But to be married to the King. She remembered her own feelings when it had been suggested that he should be her next bridegroom. She had shuddered with distaste, and yet she had felt delighted at the thought of Juana’s taking the place she despised.

But this could not be. Juana was mad. She had begun to believe that there was little doubt of this, since she had heard further rumors of her sister’s strange behavior.

The King was watching her intently. She must learn to guard her expression. She hoped that she had not allowed distaste to show itself.

He seemed not to have noticed and was smiling almost vacuously, as a country yokel might smile at the prospect of a bride. It was almost as though he had fallen in love with Juana. Oh no, no! Henry VII could never fall in love…except with a crown. That was the answer. He was falling in love with the crown of Castile.

She must be wily. She must not tell him that she thought this marriage would be quite distasteful because he was an old man and her sister was mad.

If she listened to his plans, if she worked with him, he might be prepared to reward her in some way. She was not a foolish young girl any more. She was a woman who had suffered great hardship and deep humiliation, and there was little that could make an Infanta of Spain suffer more.

She said calmly: “I will inform my father of your request.”

Henry nodded, still smiling that smile which sat so oddly on his harsh features.

“You should write to your sister and tell her of the delights of the English Court. Tell her that I have been a faithful husband to one Queen and would be so to another. You will plead my cause; and from whom could that plea come more effectively than from her sister?”

So Katharine, in her new role of ambassadress, prepared herself to open the courtship between that incongruous pair—Henry Tudor, King of England, and Juana, Queen of Castile, who was now becoming known as Juana the Mad.