Katharine, the Virgin Widow

The Tragedy at Ludlow Castle

ALL LONDON WAS EAGER TO CELEBRATE THE MARRIAGE OF the Prince of Wales and the Infanta; the King was wise enough to know that his people must have some gaiety in their lives, and that if he allowed them to celebrate the marriage of his son, they might for a time forget the heavy taxes with which they were burdened.

“Let them make merry,” he said to Empson. “A fountain of wine here and there will be enough to satisfy them. Let there be plenty of pageantry. The nobles will provide that.”

Henry was even ready to contribute a little himself, for he was very anxious that his subjects should express their loyalty to the new Tudor dynasty. There was nothing the people loved so much as a royal wedding; and as this was the wedding of the boy who was destined to become their King, it was the King’s wish that the celebrations should continue.

Katharine felt a little bewildered by them. Arthur was tired of them, but young Henry revelled in them. Margaret uneasily wondered when her marriage would be celebrated, and as for little Mary, she was delighted whenever she was allowed to witness the pageantry.

The greatest pageant of all was staged at Westminster, to which the royal family travelled by barge. After the night following the wedding day, Katharine had been sent to Baynard’s Castle where she had been placed under the strict surveillance of Doña Elvira. The King had made it clear to the duenna that the marriage was not yet to be consummated; and as Elvira considered her Infanta as yet too young for the consummation she was determined that the King’s wishes should be respected.

So, by barge, came the Infanta with her duenna and lovely maids of honor.

Katharine sometimes wished that her maids of honor were not so beautiful. It was true that she was always dazzlingly attired, and her gowns were more magnificent than those of the girls, but beauty such as that possessed by some of these girls did not need fine clothes to show it off.

The people lined the river banks to cheer her on her way to Westminster and as she smiled and acknowledged their cheers she temporarily forgot her longing for home.

Alighting from her barge she saw that before Westminster Hall a tiltyard had been prepared. On the south side of this a stage had been erected; this was luxuriously hung with cloth of gold; and about the open space other stages, far less magnificent had been set up for the spectators.

This, Katharine discovered, was the joust, the Englishman’s idea of the perfect entertainment. Here the nobility of England would gather to tilt against each other.

On this, the occasion of the most important wedding in England, the great houses were determined to outshine each other, and this they endeavored to do with such extravagance that, as the champions entered the arena, there were continual gasps of wonder and wild applause.

Katharine was led on to the stage amid the cheers of the people; and there she seated herself on cushions of cloth of gold. With her were the King, the Queen and all the royal family. But she herself occupied the place of honor.

She thought how pleased her parents would be if they could see her now.

Beside her sat Arthur, looking pale and tired; but perhaps that was because Henry was also there, radiant and full of health. He had seated himself on a stool at the bride’s feet and sat clasping his hands about his knees in a manner which was both childish and dignified.

Margaret, of whom Katharine felt a little in awe, was seated with her mother, but Katharine noticed how she kept her eyes on young Henry. Little Mary could not resist bouncing up and down in her seat now and then with excitement. No one restrained her, for her childish ways found such favor with the people.

The King was pleased. At such moments he felt at ease. Here he sat in royal panoply, his family all about him—two Princes and two Princesses to remind any nobles, who might have disloyal thoughts concerning his right to the throne, that he was building the foundations of his house with firmness.

“Look,” said Henry. “There’s my uncle Dorset coming in.”

Katharine looked and saw the Queen’s half-brother entering the arena beneath a pavilion of cloth of gold which was held over him by four riders as he came. He looked magnificent in his shining armor.

“And,” cried Henry, “there’s my uncle Courtenay. Why, what is that he is riding on? I do declare it is a dragon!”

He gazed up at Katharine, eager to see what effect such wondrous sights were having upon her. Her serenity irritated him mildly. “I’ll warrant you do not see such sights in Spain,” he challenged.

“In Spain,” said Arthur, “there is the great ceremony of La Corrida.”

“I’ll warrant,” boasted Henry, “that there are no ceremonies in Spain to compare with those in England.”

“It is well,” Arthur replied, “that Katharine does not understand you or she would not admire your manners.”

Henry said: “I wish she would learn English more quickly. There is much I would say to her.”

Katharine smiled at the boy, whose attention was now turned back to the arena, where Lord William Courtenay, who had married Queen Elizabeth’s sister, came lumbering in astride his dragon.

Katharine was being introduced to English pageantry; she thought it a little vulgar, a little simple, but she could not help but marvel at the care which had gone into the making of these symbols; and the delight which they inspired was infectious.

Now came the Earl of Essex whose pavilion was in the form of a mountain of green on which were rocks, trees, flowers and herbs; and on top of the mountain sat a beautiful young girl with her long hair loose about her.

The spectators applauded wildly, but many of the nobles present whispered that Essex was a fool thus to display his wealth before the King’s avaricious eyes. His “mountain” was clearly very costly indeed and the days when nobles flaunted their wealth so blatantly were no longer with them.

So Katharine sat back in her place of honor and watched the jousting. She listened to the cheers of the people as their favorites rode into the arena; and she found her attention fixed not so much on those whose skill with the lance gave such pleasure to the company, but on the two brothers—her husband and Henry.

Henry’s eyes were narrow with concentration; his cheeks were flushed. It was clear that he longed to be down there in the arena and emerge as the champion. As for Arthur, he seemed to shrink into his golden seat, closing his eyes now and then when disaster threatened one of the combatants. He knew that death could easily result from these jousts and he had never been able to accept such accidents with equanimity.

That day there were no serious casualties and he was glad that it was November so that the dusk fell early and it was necessary to leave the tiltyard for the hall of the Palace, where the banquet and further entertainments were awaiting them.

At the center of the table on an elevated dais the King took his place, and on his left were seated Katharine, the Queen and the King’s revered mother, the Countess of Richmond. On the King’s right hand sat Arthur. Margaret and Mary were next to their grandmother on the Queen’s side, and on the King’s side next to Arthur, in order of precedence, were the nobility of England.

The monumental pies with their golden pastry, the great joints, the dishes of flesh and fowl, were brought in with ceremony; the minstrels played and the feasting and drinking began.

But there must be pageantry, and in the space made ready before the banqueting table the dancing and spectacle began.

Katharine looked on at the ship, the castle and the mountain, which in their turn were wheeled into the hall to the cries of admiration of the guests. The ship, which came first, was manned by men dressed as sailors who called to each other in nautical terms as their brilliantly painted vehicle trundled round and round the hall. On the deck were two figures which were intended to represent Hope and Desire, and suddenly there appeared beside them a beautiful girl dressed in Spanish costume.

Henry called to Katharine from his place at table: “You see, this is all in your honor. You are the hope and desire of England.”

It was very flattering and Katharine, guessing what her young brother-in-law implied, graciously acknowledged the compliment with smiles which she hoped expressed her great pleasure and appreciation.

The mountain came next, and here again were allegorical figures all intended to pay homage to the new bride.

The most splendid of all the pageants was the castle which was drawn into the hall by lions of gold and silver; there was much whispering and laughter at the sight of these animals, for it was well known that inside each of the lion’s skins were two men; one being the front part, the other the hindquarters. The spectators had seen these animals perform before, as they were a feature of most pageants; but they slyly watched Katharine to see her astonishment, for it was believed that she must be wondering what strange animals these were.

Seated on top of the castle was another beautiful girl in Spanish costume, and she, like the other, was being courted by Hope and Desire.

And when the ship, the mountain and the castle were all in the hall, the minstrels began to play; then beautiful girls and handsome men stepped from them, and as there was an equal number of both sexes they were most conveniently partnered for a dance, which they performed in the space before the banqueting table.

When this dance was over the performers bowed low and, to great applause, slipped out of the hall.

Now the company must join in, but first the royal bride and groom must dance followed by other members of the royal family.

Katharine and Arthur did not dance together. Many present thought this meant that the marriage was not yet to be consummated. So Katharine chose her maid of honor Maria de Rojas, and together they danced a bass dance, which was stately and more suitable, she thought, to the occasion than one of those dances known as la volta and which involved a good deal of high stepping and capering.

Katharine was at her best in the dance, for she moved with grace and she was an attractive figure in spite of the superior beauty of Maria de Rojas.

Two gentlemen at the table watched Maria as she danced. One was the grandson of the Earl of Derby, who thought her the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; but there was another watching Maria. This was Iñigo Manrique, the son of Doña Elvira Manuel, who had accompanied the party to England in the role of one of Katharine’s pages.

Maria was conscious of these looks as she danced, and deliberately she gave her smile to the young Englishman.

But although Maria’s beauty attracted attention there were many who closely watched the young Infanta. The King and Queen were delighted with her; she was healthy and whether or not she was beautiful was of no great moment. She was fresh and young enough not to be repellent to a young man. They were both thinking that when the time came she would be fertile.

Arthur watched her and found pleasure in watching her; now that he knew he need not fear the consummation of their marriage he was very eager to win the friendship of his wife.

Henry could not take his eyes from Katharine. The more he saw of her the more his resentment rose. The precocious youth enjoyed occasions such as this, but he was never completely happy unless he was the center of attraction. If only he had been the bridegroom! he was thinking. If only he were the future King of England!

The dance was over, the applause rang out while Katharine and Maria returned to their places. Arthur then led out his aunt, the Princess Cecily, and the dance they chose was a grave and stately one. Henry, watching them through sullen eyes, was thinking that so must Arthur dance, because the high dances made him breathless. But that was not the English way of dancing. When the English danced they threw themselves wholeheartedly into the affair. They should caper and leap and show that they enjoyed it. He would show them when his turn came. He was impatient to do so. When it came he and his sister Margaret stepped into the center of the hall; there was immediate applause, and all sullenness left Henry’s face as he bowed to the spectators and began to dance. He called to the minstrels to play more quickly; he wanted a gayer air. Then he took Margaret’s hand and the color came into their faces as they danced and capered about the hall, leaping into the air, twirling on their toes; and when Margaret showed signs of slackening Henry would goad her to greater efforts.

The company was laughing and applauding, and Henry, the sweat running down his face, threw off his surcoat and leaping and cavorting in his small garments continued to divert the company.

Even the King and Queen were laughing with pleasure, and when the music eventually stopped and the energetic young Prince with his sister returned to the table, congratulations were showered on them from every corner of the hall.

Henry acknowledged the cheers on behalf of himself and Margaret, but his small eyes rested on Katharine. He knew that his father was wishing his first-born were more like his other son.

Henry realized then that he was hoping Katharine was making a similar comparison of himself and Arthur.

DOÑA ELVIRA MANUEL, that most domineering of duennas, was delighted with the state of affairs in England, for while Katharine had her separate household she remained in charge of it, and she knew well that once Katharine became in truth the wife of Arthur she would cease to maintain the power which was now hers.

As duenna to a virgin bride she was supreme, for Katharine herself, on the instructions of Queen Isabella, must bow to her wishes.

Doña Elvira had never been chary of expressing her opinions, and it was inevitable that other ambitious people in the Spanish entourage should find her intolerable and seek to undermine her power.

There was one who held great influence with Katharine. This was Father Alessandro Geraldini who had been her tutor for many years and who now was her chief chaplain and confessor.

Since he had been in England Geraldini had become increasingly aware of the important role which was his and what a different matter it was to be adviser and confidant of the Princess of Wales after being merely tutor to the Infanta of Spain. Not only was Katharine the most important lady in England next to the Queen, but she was also more important to her parents’ political schemes than she had ever been before. And he, Geraldini, was her confessor. Was he going to allow a sharp-tongued woman to dominate him!

He sought for means of destroying her power. He asked permission to speak to Don Pedro de Ayala confidentially.

The ambassador shut the door of the anteroom in which the interview took place and begged Geraldini to state his business.

Geraldini came straight to the point. “Doña Elvira Manuel has become insufferable. One would think she was the Princess of Wales.”

“In what way has she offended you, my friend?”

“She behaves as though she has charge of the Infanta’s very soul. And that happens to be my duty.”

Ayala nodded. He was secretly amused; he liked to contemplate strife between the domineering duenna and the ambitious priest.

“The sooner our Infanta is free of such supervision the better, I say,” continued Geraldini. “And the sooner this marriage becomes a real marriage the better pleased will be our Sovereigns.”

“I see that you are in their Highnesses’ confidence,” said Ayala with a smile.

“I think I know my duty,” answered Geraldini sharply. “Could not their Highnesses be persuaded that it is dangerous to Spanish policy if the marriage remains unconsummated?”

“Tell me how you see such danger in our Infanta’s virginity.”

The priest grew pink. “It is…not as it should be.”

“I will pass on your comments to the Sovereigns,” Ayala told him. Geraldini was not satisfied. He went to Puebla. Like most of the Infanta’s household he had come to despise Puebla, who was often disparagingly referred to as the marrano. Christianized Jews were people of whom the Inquisition had taught Spaniards to be wary.

As for the English, they had found Puebla parsimonious and, although this was a trait they had to accept in their King, they did not like it in others. Therefore Geraldini was less careful of offending Puebla than of offending Ayala.

“The marriage should be consummated,” he said at once. “It is our duty as servants of their Catholic Highnesses to see that this unsatisfactory state of affairs is ended.”

Puebla eyed the priest speculatively. He knew of Geraldini’s influence with Katharine.

“It is the wish of the Infanta?” he asked.

Geraldini made an impatient movement. “The Infanta is innocent. She expresses no opinion. How could she, knowing little of such matters? Yet she holds herself willing to obey the command of her parents.”

Puebla was thoughtful, wondering how best he could ingratiate himself with the English King. He believed that England was to be his home for a long time, and that pleasing the King of England was as important a matter—if not more so—as pleasing the Spanish Sovereigns. Yet the consummation of the Infanta’s marriage seemed to him of small importance compared with the matter of her dowry.

Even as he listened to Geraldini he was wondering what he could do to please the King of England in this matter without displeasing the Spanish Sovereigns. The dowry had been agreed on as two hundred thousand crowns, one hundred thousand of which had been paid on the wedding day. Fifty thousand more were due in six months’ time and another fifty thousand within the year. The plate and jewels, which Katharine had brought with her from Spain and which were to form part of the payment, were valued at thirty-five thousand crowns. This was important to Henry because the plate and jewels were actually in England. For the remainder of the dowry he had only the word of Isabella and Ferdinand to rely on. Why should not Henry take the plate and jewels now? They were in England, so protests from Spain would be fruitless. Henry had already shown when he had seen the Infanta before her wedding that in England he was determined to have his way.

So Puebla was of the opinion that the consummation of the marriage was of far less importance than the Infanta’s dowry.

“It is always the King of England who will decide,” he said.

“Then I think we should let it be known that the Sovereigns of Spain expect consummation without delay.”

Puebla lifted his shoulders and Geraldini could see that, like Ayala, he was indifferent.

But the fact that Geraldini had approached both ambassadors in the matter was brought to the notice of Doña Elvira, and she immediately realized that the officiousness of the priest was directed against her own authority.

Doña Elvira was never a woman to consider whether or not she offended others.

She asked Geraldini to come to her apartments and, when he arrived, she went straight into the attack.

“It appears, Father Geraldini, that you choose to forget that I am in charge of the Infanta’s household!”

“I did not forget.”

“Did you not? Then it seems strange that you should go about explaining that it is the wish of their Catholic Highnesses that the marriage should be consummated.”

“Strange, Doña Elvira? It is common sense.”

“You are in the Sovereigns’ confidence?”

“I…I am the Infanta’s confessor, and as such…”

Doña Elvira’s eyes narrowed. And as such, she thought, you enjoy too much of her confidence. I shall remedy that.

She interrupted coldly: “Queen Isabella put me in charge of her daughter’s household, and until she removes me from that position, there I shall remain. It is for the good of all that as yet the marriage shall remain unconsummated. Our Infanta is as yet too young and her husband even younger. I will thank you, Father, not to meddle in affairs which are no concern of yours.”

Geraldini bowed to hide the hatred in his eyes, but Doña Elvira made no attempt to hide that in hers.

There was war between them, and Doña Elvira would not be satisfied until she had arranged for the insolent priest’s recall to Spain.

HENRY CAME RUNNING into his brother’s apartments, his eyes blazing with excitement.

Arthur was stretched out on a couch looking very pale.

“Are you sick, Arthur?” asked Henry, but he did not wait for an answer. “I have just seen a strange thing, brother. Our father has done to death his best falcon, and for no other reason than that it was not afraid to match itself with an eagle.”

“Is that so?” said Arthur wearily.

“Indeed it is so. Our father ordered the falconers to pluck off its head, and this was done.”

“I understand why,” said Arthur, “because I remember how he hanged the mastiffs.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “I remembered too. Our father said: ‘It is not meet for any subject to attack his superior.’”

“Ah,” mused Arthur, “our father is fond of these little parables, is he not?”

“But his best falcon! And all because the bird was game enough to show no fear of the mighty eagle. I should have treasured that falcon. I should have been proud of him. I should have used him continually. I should not have plucked off his head for bravery.”

“You are not King.”

“No—that is not for me.” Arthur noticed the sullen lines about the little mouth.

“It is unfortunate. You would have made a much better King than I, Henry.”

Henry did not deny this. “But you are the elder. It is the Church for me. And you already have a wife.”

Arthur flushed. He was a little ashamed of being a husband and yet no husband. It was embarrassing to know that there was a great deal of talk about whether or not the marriage should be consummated. It made him feel foolish.

Henry was thinking of that now. His face was as usual expressive, and Arthur could always guess at his thoughts.

Henry strutted about the apartment, imagining himself as the husband. There would be no question of the consummation then.

“You find her comely?” he asked slyly.

“She is very comely,” answered Arthur.

“And she brings you much enjoyment?”

Arthur flushed. “Indeed yes.”

Henry rocked on his heels and looked knowledgeable. “I have heard that the Spaniards are a passionate people, for all their solemn dignity.”

“Oh, it is true…it is true…” said Arthur.

Henry smiled. “It is said that you and she are not husband and wife in truth. I’ll warrant those who say that do not know the real truth.”

Arthur began to cough to hide his embarrassment; but he did not deny Henry’s suggestion.

Henry began to laugh; then suddenly he remembered the falcon. “If I were King,” he said, “I do not think I should have to hang my bravest dogs and destroy my most gallant falcon to warn my subjects that they must obey me.”

Henry was looking into the future, and once more Arthur guessed his thoughts. Do I look so ill then? he wondered. And he knew that he did, and that the chances were that he would not live, nor beget children, to keep Henry from the throne.

IT WAS TIME that Arthur returned to the Principality of Wales and the question had arisen as to whether Katharine should accompany him.

The King was undecided. Each day it seemed to him that Arthur looked weaker.

Puebla had been to him and, in an endeavor to assure Henry that he, Puebla, in reality served the King of England even though he was supposed to be the servant of the Spanish Sovereigns, he suggested that Henry should immediately take possession of Katharine’s plate and jewels.

“They will, of course, be Your Grace’s at the end of the year, but why should you not take them now?”

Henry considered the value of the plate and jewels—some thirty-five thousand crowns, according to the valuation made by the London goldsmiths—and when he contemplated such wealth his fingers itched to take possession of it. A year was a long time to wait. Anything could happen in a year, particularly as Arthur was not strong. But once the plate and jewels were in his possession there they should remain.

He sent therefore to Katharine’s treasurer, Don Juan de Cuero, and asked that the plate and jewels be handed to him.

This Don Juan de Cuero refused to do.

“Nay,” he told Henry’s messenger, “I am in charge of the Infanta’s revenues, and it was the express command of the Sovereigns of Spain that the plate and jewellery should remain the property of their daughter until the time was ripe for the payment of the second half of the dowry.”

Henry was irritated when he received this reply, but he had no intention of upsetting the Spanish Sovereigns at this stage and was ready to abandon the idea of laying his hands on the plate and jewels until the appointed time.

Puebla came to him with a suggestion. Puebla had made up his mind that it would be to Spain’s advantage if the marriage were consummated, and he was determined to do everything in his power to bring this about.

He had Henry’s confidence. More than once he had shown the King of England that he worked with an eye to England’s advantages, and now he had a suggestion to make.

“If the Infanta could be induced to wear her jewellery and use her plate it could then be called second-hand and you could decline to accept it as part payment of the dowry. Ferdinand and Isabella would then be bound to pay you thirty-five thousand crowns instead of the plate and jewels—which would remain in England so that you could always take them if you wished.”

This seemed a good idea to Henry’s crafty mind. But he pointed out: “Her treasurer keeps a firm hand on the plate and jewels which he knows are to come as part payment of the dowry. He would never consent to her using them.”

Puebla appeared to be thoughtful. He knew Isabella and Ferdinand well and he was convinced that the fact that the plate and jewels had been used by their daughter would have no effect whatsoever on the bargain they had made. They needed money too desperately to consider lightly parting with it. But Puebla’s desire was not to work against Spain for the sake of Henry but only to give Henry the impression that he was doing so.

Then Puebla said: “If the Infanta accompanied the Prince to Wales, they could set up a small court there, and the Infanta’s plate could be used by them both. She would want to wear her jewels in her own little court.”

The King nodded. “The Princess of Wales shall accompany her husband to Ludlow,” he said.

THE JOURNEY westwards was pleasant enough. Arthur seemed happy to escape from his father’s notice. He rode at the head of the cavalcade and Katharine was close to him, riding on a pillion behind her master of horse; and when this mode of travel tired her she took to her litter which was borne between two horses.

The people came out in the villages to welcome her and Arthur, and she was delighted that Arthur always considered the pleasure of the people and would stop and speak to them, always gentle, always with a smile, no matter how tired he was—and he was so often tired.

She was glad that his father had sent a council of men with him, headed by Sir Richard Pole, which meant that Arthur had no decisions to make which would have caused him anxiety; he travelled as the representative of the King, and could always call in his councillors if action was necessary, and should it not be carried out in accordance with the King’s pleasure, it would be Sir Richard and the council who would be blamed, not Arthur.

With Katharine rode her own household headed by Doña Elvira, whose son, Don Iñigo Manrique, was among Katharine’s pages. Don Iñigo strove to ride beside Maria de Rojas, who did her best to keep close to Katharine. Alessandro Geraldini was also a member of the party, and the strife between him and Doña Elvira increased as the days passed.

Many of Katharine’s entourage who had accompanied her from Spain had now been sent back to their own country; and as Katharine rode towards Wales she felt a sudden desolation because she had said goodbye to the Archbishop of Santiago and many others. She envied them their return to Spain and she let herself wonder what was happening in the Madrid Alcazar or the great Alhambra. How happy she would have been if she could have burst into her mother’s apartments and thrown herself into those loving arms!

I shall never cease to long for her, she thought sadly as she lay back in her litter.

They rested for a night in the royal Manor at Bewdley in Worcestershire, and it was here that Arthur showed her the chapel in which their marriage had been performed by proxy.

“Puebla stood as your proxy,” said Arthur, wrinkling his nose with disgust.

Katharine laughed. “At least you prefer me to him!” she slowly answered in English, which he was teaching her and at which she was making good progress.

“I like him not,” answered Arthur. “And you I like so much.”

As they went back to the Manor and their separate apartments there, Katharine thought that she was fortunate indeed to have a husband as kind and gentle as Arthur.

“You are smiling,” said Arthur, “and you look happier than I have seen you look before.”

“I was thinking,” she answered, “that if my mother were here with us I should be completely happy.”

“When I am in truth King,” Arthur told her, “we will visit your mother and she shall visit us. You love her so dearly, do you not? Your voice is different when you mention her.”

“She is the kindest mother anyone ever had. She is the greatest of Queens and yet…and yet…”

“I understand,” said Arthur, touching her arm gently.

“Others did not understand her always,” went on Katharine. “They thought her cold and stern. But to us, her children, she was always gentle. Yet none of us, not even my sister Juana, would have dared disobey her. Sometimes I wish she had not been perfect; then it would have been easier to have said goodbye to her.”

They were silent, but during that stay at Bewdley she realized that she could easily love Arthur. As for Arthur, he was happy with his bride.

He was thinking: In a year or so I shall be her husband in very truth. Then we shall have children, and she will be such a mother to them as Queen Isabella was to her.

Arthur could look forward to the future with a serenity and pleasure he had rarely known before.

And so they came to Ludlow.

THE CASTLE ROSE from the point of a headland, and its bold gray towers appeared to be impregnable.

“There are no better views in all England than those to be seen from the castle,” Arthur told Katharine. “From the north side there is Corve Dale, and from the east you can see Titterstone Clee Hill. And stretched out beyond is the valley of the Teme with the Stretton Hills forming a background. I have a great affection for Ludlow. It is on the very borders of the Welsh country which I have always felt was my country.”

Katharine nodded. “The people here love you,” she said.

“Am I not the Prince of Wales? And do not forget that you are the Princess. They will love you too.”

“I fervently hope so,” answered Katharine.

Katharine never forgot her first nights in Ludlow Castle. There in the large hall fires had been lighted; cressets shone their light from the walls, and as she sat beside Arthur while the chieftains of Wales came to the castle to pay homage to their Prince, she felt that she was farther from the halls of the Alhambra than she had ever been.

Never had she seen such fierce men as those who came in from the Welsh mountains. She could not understand their melodious speech; some looked like mountain brigands, others appeared in odd finery, but all spoke like poets and entertained her with such sweet singing that she was astonished.

The first of the chieftains of Wales, Rhys ap Thomas, came to pay his homage and to swear to Arthur that he accepted him as his Prince and would fight for him whenever and wherever it should be necessary.

Arthur was a little in awe of the fierce chieftain who he knew hoped for much, now that there was a Tudor king on the throne. Perhaps he was a little disappointed. Perhaps the Tudor was more English than Welsh. But at least he sent his son to forge friendships with the people of Wales, and in the mountains they continued to hope that one day the Tudors would remember Wales.

With Rhys ap Thomas came his son, Griffith ap Rhys, a beautiful young boy who, said his father, sought service in the household of the Prince and Princess of Wales; and when the boy was brought forward to kneel and kiss the hands of Arthur and Katharine, he assured Arthur in the Welsh tongue of his loyalty and will to serve.

“Now speak the other tongues you know, boy,” said his father proudly; and Griffith ap Rhys began to speak in a language which Katharine recognized as French.

This delighted Katharine, because here was someone with whom she might be able to converse. She answered Griffith in French, and to her pleasure he was able to understand; and although their accents and intonations were so different they could chat together.

“I wish to make Griffith my gentleman usher,” she told Arthur, and there was nothing she could have said which would have given the boy’s father more delight.

There was no doubt in the minds of any that Wales was pleased with its Princess.

A FEW WEEKS PASSED, weeks which afterwards seemed to Katharine like a dream. She was happier than she had been since she left Spain. She, Arthur and Griffith ap Rhys rode together; she found great pleasure in talking in French to Griffith, and Arthur liked to listen to them. They were like two brothers and a sister—constantly discovering interests in common. In the long evenings by the blazing fires and the lights of the torches there would be singing and dancing in the great hall; and those who watched said: “Before long this marriage will be consummated. The Prince and the Princess are falling in love.”

They would sit side by side, and Griffith would be seated on a stool at their feet, strumming on his harp and singing songs, the favorite of which was one about a great King Arthur who had once reigned in Britain.

One day, it was said, there would be another great King Arthur to rule over England and Wales; he would be this Arthur who now sat in the hall of Ludlow Castle. He was young yet; he was a little pale and seemed weak; but he was leaving boyhood behind him, he was becoming a man, and he had the fair young Princess from Spain beside him.

MARCH HAD SET IN and the snow gave place to rain. For days the mist hung about the drafty rooms of the castle; the damp seeped into the bones of all and even the great fires which blazed on the hearths could not drive the mist from Ludlow Castle.

Katharine longed for the cold, frosty weather; then she and Arthur could have gone riding together. She dared not suggest that they go out in the driving rain, for Arthur had begun to cough more persistently since they had come to Ludlow.

One day Griffith ap Rhys burst somewhat unceremoniously into their presence.

They were sitting by the fire in one of the smaller apartments of the castle and a few of their suite were with them.

Doña Elvira looked sternly at the young Welshman and was preparing to reproach him for forgetting the respect he owed to the Prince and Princess of Wales, when Griffith burst out: “I have ill news. The sweating sickness has come to Ludlow.”

A horrified silence fell on the company. The sweating sickness was considered to be one of the greatest calamities which could befall a community. It spread rapidly from one to another and invariably ended in death, although if the patient could survive the first twenty-four hours of the disease, it was said that he usually recovered.

Questions were fired at Griffith, who said that several of the townsfolk were stricken and that he had himself seen people in the streets sinking to the ground because the fever had overcome them before they could reach their homes.

When this was explained to Elvira she began giving rapid orders. The castle was to be closed to all visitors; they were to consider themselves in a state of siege. At all costs the sweating sickness must not be allowed to enter Ludlow Castle while the Infanta of Spain was there.

The news had cast a gloom on the company, but Katharine was eager to know more about the dreaded disease, and Griffith sat beside her and told her and Arthur how it began with a fever and that many died before the sweating stage began. Then they sweated profusely and, if they could cling to life long enough, they stood a chance of recovery; for in sweating they cast off the evil humors of the body and thus recovered.

Arthur was disturbed; he told Katharine: “The disease broke out soon after my father won the throne. I think some looked upon it as an evil omen. It is strange that it should have broken out here in Ludlow now we are come. It would seem that there is a blight on our House.”

“No,” replied Katharine fiercely, “this sickness could happen anywhere.”

“It started in the army which landed at Milford Haven with my father.”

Katharine endeavored to disperse his gloom, but it was not easy; and that night the singing ceased in Ludlow Castle.

KATHARINE AWOKE in the night. She was conscious of a curious burning sensation in her limbs; she tried to call out but her mouth was parched.

She lay still, thinking: So it has come to Ludlow Castle and I am its victim. Yet if I am to die, then I shall be with my sister Isabella and my brother Juan, and I think I should be happy.

There was another thought which came to her and which she would not voice. It was that her mother might not be long for this world, and if she too were going to pass from the Earth to be with Isabella and Juan, then Katharine would long to join them.

She felt lightheaded; she had forgotten she was in grim Ludlow Castle; she thought she was back behind the rose-tinted walls of the Alhambra; she thought that she lingered in one of the patios, trailing her hot fingers in the cool fountains; but the fountains were not cool; they were hot as fire and she believed she had put her fingers in the fires in which the heretics were burned, mistaking them for fountains.

She was tossing from side to side in her bed when Maria de Rojas came to bid her good morning.

Maria took one look at her mistress and was terrified. She ran screaming to Doña Elvira.

SO KATHARINE lay a victim of the dreaded sickness. All through the day and night which followed Elvira was in the sickroom. Angrily she ordered possets and herbal drinks to be prepared in case they might be of some use to her Infanta. She cursed those who had dared bring infection into the castle. She had no thought of anything but the health of her mistress.

Katharine had passed into the sweating period. Elvira hovered anxiously about her bed. If she sweated profusely the evil humors would be thrown off; and she was sweating.

“The Sovereigns will never forgive me,” cried Elvira, “for letting their daughter face such infection. She must recover. It is unthinkable that she should die…her dowry not even paid, her virginity intact.”

The energy of Doña Elvira affected all who came in contact with the sickroom.

News was brought for Katharine, but Elvira would not admit the messenger.

So the Prince was sick? Well, was not the Prince always ailing? The Infanta, who was never ill, was now laid low with their miserable sweating sickness!

It was twenty-four hours since Katharine had been taken ill. She lay limp and exhausted on her bed; but she still lived.

Doña Elvira busied herself with making a brew of aromatic herbs, laurel and juniper berries which the physicians had recommended; and when Katharine had drunk it she opened her eyes and said: “Doña Elvira, bring my mother to me.”

“You are in your bed in Ludlow Castle, Highness. You have been very ill but I have nursed you back to health.”

Katharine nodded her head slightly. “I remember now,” she said; and there were tears in her eyes which would never have appeared but for her bodily weakness. She wanted her mother now, even more than ever. She knew that, if only she could feel that cool hand on her brow, see those serene eyes looking into hers, commanding her to bear whatever ill fortune God had seen fit to send to her, she could have wept for joy; as it was she could not prevent herself from weeping in sorrow.

“The worst is over,” said Elvira. “You will get well now. I have nursed you with my own hands, and shall do so until you are completely recovered.”

“Thank you, Doña Elvira.”

Elvira took Katharine’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Always I am at your service, my dearest Infanta,” she said. “Do you not understand that?”

“I understand,” said Katharine; and she closed her eyes. But try as she might she could not prevent the tears seeping through.

If I could see her but once…she thought. She turned her head that Doña Elvira might not see the tears.

“Does my mother know of my illness?” she asked.

“She will hear of it and of your recovery in the same message.”

“I am glad of that. Now she will not be grieved. If I had died that would have been her greatest sorrow. She loves me dearly.”

Now the tears were flowing more freely, and it was no use trying to restrain them. These were the tears which had been demanding to be shed for so long, and which in her strength she had withheld. Now she was too weak to fight them and she wept shamelessly.

“For she loves me so,” she whispered, “and we are parted. There will never be another to love me as my mother loved me. All my life there will never be love for me such as she gave me.”

“What nonsense is this?” said Elvira. “You must keep well covered. It may be that you have not sweated enough. There may be more humors to be released. Come, what would your mother say if she saw those foolish tears?”

“She would understand,” cried Katharine. “Did she not always understand?”

Elvira covered her up sharply. The Infanta’s tears shocked her.

She is very weak, she thought. But the worst is over. I have nursed her through this. She is right when she says the Queen dotes on her. I shall have Isabella’s undying gratitude for nursing her daughter through this illness.

THERE WAS A MUFFLED silence throughout the castle. People were speaking in whispers. Griffith ap Rhys sat with his harp at his knees, but the harp was silent.

There was death in the Castle of Ludlow. Disease had struck where it could not be defeated.

In the chamber of the Prince of Wales the candles were lighted by the bed and the watchers kept their vigil. Sir Richard Pole’s courier was on his way to Greenwich, to break the news to the King and Queen.

In the whole of Ludlow Castle Katharine, lying on her sick bed, was the only one who did not know that this day she had become a widow.