Katharine, the Virgin Widow

Intrigue at Durham House

AS SOON AS QUEEN ELIZABETH RECEIVED THE MESSAGE that she was to go with all haste to the King’s chamber, as soon as she looked into the face of the messenger, she knew that some dire tragedy had befallen her House. And when she learned that the couriers had come from Ludlow she guessed that what she had been dreading so long had at last taken place.

She steeled herself for the ordeal.

Henry was standing in the center of the chamber; his usually pale face was gray and his eyes looked stricken. He did not speak for a moment, and the Queen’s glance went from her husband to the Friar Observant who was the King’s confessor.

“My son?” whispered the Queen.

The Friar bowed his head.

“He is…ill?”

“He has departed to God, Your Grace.”

The Queen did not speak. For so many years she had waited for this news, dreading it. The fear of it had come to her in the days when she had held Arthur in her arms, a weak baby who did not cry but lay placid in his cradle, not because he was contented, but because he was too weak for aught else. It had come at last.

The King said: “Pray leave the Queen and myself. We will share this painful sorrow alone.”

The Friar left them and even when the door shut on them they did not move towards each other; and for some seconds there was silence between them.

It was the King who broke it. “This is a bitter blow.”

She nodded. “He was never strong. I always feared it. Now it has befallen us.”

She lifted her eyes to her husband’s face and she was suddenly aware of a deep pity for him. She looked at the lean face, the lines etched by the sides of his mouth; the eyes which were too alert. She read the thoughts behind that lean and clever face. The heir to the throne was dead, and there was only one male child left to him. There was also a nobility which he would never trust and which was constantly on the alert to shout that the Tudors had no legitimate claim to the throne. All her life Elizabeth had lived close to the struggle to win and keep a crown. It was painful to her now that her husband should not think of Arthur as their dear son, but as the heir.

He would never know what it was to love, to feel acute sorrow such as she was feeling now. Should she feel envious of him because he did not suffer as she did through the loss of their son? No, even in this bitter moment she felt sorry for him because he would never know the joy of loving.

“Why does God do this to us?” demanded Henry harshly. “The Friar has just said that if we receive good at the hands of God, we must patiently sustain the ill He sends us.”

“It is true,” said Elizabeth. She went to the window and looked out on the river as it flowed peacefully past this Palace of Greenwich. “We have much for which to thank God,” she added.

“But this was my eldest son…my heir!”

“You must not grieve. You must remember that you have your duty to do. You have other children.”

“Yet the plague could carry off our children in a few hours.”

“Arthur was not strong enough to withstand the attack. The others are stronger. Why, Henry, your mother had but you, and look to what you have come. You have one healthy Prince and two Princesses.”

“Henry is my heir now,” mused the King.

Elizabeth had left the window and was walking towards him. She had to comfort him.

“Henry,” she said, “we are not old. Perhaps we shall have more children. More sons.”

The King seemed somewhat pacified. He put his arm about her and said with more feeling than he usually displayed: “You have been a good wife to me. But of course we shall get ourselves more sons.”

She closed her eyes and tried to smile. She was thinking of the nights ahead which must be dedicated to the begetting of children. She longed for peace at night. She was growing more and more aware of her need for rest. She thought of the weary months of pregnancy, which must precede a birth.

But it was the duty of Queens to turn their backs on sorrow, to stop grieving for the children who were lost to them, and to think of those as yet unborn.

Henry took her hand and raised it to his cold lips.

He said as he released it: “I see trouble ahead with regard to Katharine’s dowry. If only Arthur had lived another year it should all have been paid over, and perhaps by that time Arthur would have got her with child.”

The Queen did not answer; she fancied that her husband was reproving their delicate son for dying at a time most inconvenient to his father’s schemes.

Poor Henry! she mused. He knows nothing of love. He knows little of anything but statecraft and the best methods of filling the coffers of his treasury.

Why should she say Poor Henry! when he was quite unaware of any lack in his life? Perhaps she should say Poor Katharine, who at this time lay sick at Ludlow, her dowry half paid, her position most insecure. What would happen to Katharine of Aragon now? The Queen of England would do all in her power to help the poor child, but what power had the Queen of England?

BEFORE THE burnished mirror in his apartment young Henry stood.

He had received the news with mingled feelings. Arthur…dead! He had known it must happen, but it was nevertheless a shock when the news came.

Never to see Arthur again! Never to show off his superior prowess, never to strut before the delicate brother. It made him feel a little sad.

But what great avenues were opening out before him. To be Prince of Wales when one had been Duke of York! This was no trifling title, for one who had been destined to become Archbishop of Canterbury would one day be King of England.

King of England! The little eyes were alight with pleasure; the smooth cheeks flushed pink. Now the homage he received would be doubled, the cries of the people in the streets intensified.

No longer Prince Henry—but Henry, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of England.

“Henry VIII of England!” There were no sweeter words in the English language.

When he contemplated them and all they meant he could cease to grieve for the death of his delicate brother Arthur.

IN A LITTER, covered with black velvet and black cloth, Katharine travelled from Ludlow to Richmond. How different was this journey from that other which she had taken such a short time before with Arthur!

The weather had changed, but Katharine was unaware of all the beauty of an English spring. She could think only of the husband whom she had lost, the husband who had been no husband.

And then there came a sudden blinding flash of hope as she remembered the fate of her sister Isabella, which was so like her own. Isabella had gone into Portugal to marry the heir to the throne, and shortly after their marriage he had died in a hunting accident. The result was that Isabella had returned to Spain.

Now, thought Katharine, they will send me home. I shall see my mother again.

So how could she be completely unhappy at that prospect? She believed that this time next year her stay in England would be like a distant dream. She would wander through the flagged corridors of the Alhambra; she would look through her windows on to the Courtyard of Lions; she would stray into the Court of Myrtles, and her mother would be beside her. The pomegranate would no longer merely be a device; it would be all about her—growing in the gardens, pictured on the shields and the walls of her parents’ palace. Happiest of all, her mother would be beside her. “You did your duty,” she would say. “You went uncomplaining to England. Now, my Catalina, you shall stay with me for ever.”

Katharine of Aragon would again become Catalina, Infanta, beloved daughter of the Queen.

So, as she went on her way to Richmond, she thought tenderly of Arthur who had been so kind to her in life, and who in death would, she believed, bring her relief from bondage.

QUEEN ELIZABETH was waiting to receive the widow.

Poor child! she thought. She will be desolate. How will she feel, alone in a strange land? Does she realize how her position has changed? She, who was Princess of Wales, is now merely a Spanish Princess, who has been married in name only. If there had been an heir on the way the circumstances would have changed considerably. But now…what is her position? How sad that girls should be used thus by ambitious men.

The King came to her apartment. He gave her that cool appraising look which she knew meant that he was looking for some sign of pregnancy.

She said: “The Infanta should arrive at Richmond tomorrow, I believe.”

A wary look replaced the speculative one in the King’s eyes.

“I will keep her with me for a while,” went on the Queen. “This is a terrible shock for her.”

“It would not be wise for her to remain at Richmond,” said the King quickly.

The Queen did not answer, but waited for his commands.

“She should be installed with her household outside the Court,” went on the King.

“I thought that, so soon after her bereavement…”

The King looked surprised. It was rarely that the Queen sought to question his orders.

“This is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs,” he said. “Our son dead within a few months of his marriage, and that marriage never consummated—or at least so we believe.”

“You have reason to suspect that it was consummated?” asked the Queen sharply.

The King shrugged his shoulders. “I ordered that it should not be, but they went to Wales together—two young people, not displeased with each other. It would not have been impossible for them to be together…alone.”

“If this happened,” said the Queen excitedly, “if Katharine should be with child…”

“Then she would be carrying the heir to the throne. Our son Henry would not be pleased, I’ll swear.”

“Henry! He is so like my father sometimes that I do not know whether to rejoice or tremble.”

“I thank God we have our son Henry, but I am not an old man myself, and I should have some years left to me…enough that Henry may be of age before his turn comes to take the throne. But, as you say, what if Katharine should be carrying a child? It is possible, although I doubt Arthur would have gone against my expressed wish. If only he had lived a few months longer. You may be sure there will be difficulty with those Spaniards.”

“They will be more inclined to meet your demands if we treat their daughter well.”

“I shall treat her as her dignity warrants. She shall stay with you at Richmond for a day or so; until she has had time to overcome her grief. Then she shall take up residence in the house opposite Twickenham Church. She shall live there with her own suite. Remember, she has no claim on us now and it would be as well that she shall not be at Court until we have negotiated with her parents as to what is to become of her.”

The Queen bowed her head. It was no use pleading with her husband. She would not be able to comfort the young girl, to treat her as she would a sorrowing daughter. The King would have the Sovereigns of Spain know that the death of the Prince of Wales had put their daughter in a precarious position.

KATHARINE WAS SORRY that she could not stay with the Court at Richmond, but she believed this to be only a waiting period, for she was certain that, as soon as her parents heard the news, they would give orders that she return to Spain. But it would take a little time for the message to reach Spain and for the Sovereigns’ orders to be sent to England.

It would have been pleasant to have had the company of Henry and Margaret. Margaret herself was in need of comfort, for she was soon to depart to Scotland as a bride.

But this could not be and, after a brief stay at Richmond, Katharine and her household were removed to a turreted house with the church opposite, and Doña Elvira took charge of all household arrangements.

It was soon decided that the palace of the Bishop of Durham, which was situated on the Strand, would be a more suitable dwelling for the Infanta; and so to Durham House she went.

Elvira was delighted with this seclusion because it meant that, removed from the Court as they were, she was in charge of the entire household. Her husband, Don Pedro Manrique, and her son, Don Iñigo, held high posts in Katharine’s household and Elvira was ambitious for them. She had determined that Maria de Rojas should be betrothed to Iñigo; she believed that Maria’s dowry would be a large one.

Elvira often thought of her brother, Don Juan Manuel, whose service to the Sovereigns should not go unrewarded. Isabella, she knew, thought highly of him and he should have had more honors than he had so far received. Elvira guessed that it was Ferdinand who barred his way to success, for Ferdinand was constantly seeking favors for his illegitimate children and, although the Queen insisted on having her way, Ferdinand was full of cunning and often scored in spite of his wife.

If there were no King Ferdinand, Elvira often thought, Juan would receive his dues.

She wished sometimes that she were in Spain; she felt sure that she would have been able to expedite Juan’s rise to favor in the same efficient way in which she was able to look after Iñigo’s in London.

But for the moment she was contented. The Infanta had reverted to her care, and as she was now a widow in a difficult situation, she relied on Elvira. Isabella would soon be sending instructions, and those instructions would come to Elvira.

So life in Durham House took on the pattern of that of a Spanish Alcazar. The English tongue was rarely heard; the English nobles who had held places in the entourage of the Prince and Princess of Wales disappeared, and their places were taken by Spaniards. Don Pedro Manrique was once more the first Chamberlain; Don Juan de Cuero was treasurer; Alessandro Geraldini remained the Infanta’s confessor; and Don Iñigo was at the head of her pages. Elvira ruled the household; but that did not mean that the animosity, which she had engendered in the heart and mind of Geraldini, was abated. Rather it had intensified.

Puebla remembered insults which the duenna did not cease to heap upon him.

Ayala watched mischievously, fearing that soon he might be recalled to Spain and so miss the fun which, he felt sure, must be lurking in such a delicate situation.

AS THE PARTY RODE towards Richmond, people stopped to stare at it.

“Spaniards!” they whispered. They knew, for they had seen Spaniards in plenty since the Infanta had come to England.

Something was afoot. Perhaps the gentleman who rode at the head of that party of foreigners had come to take the widowed Infanta back to Spain.

The party was riding towards the Palace where the King was in residence.

Hernan Duque de Estrada was thoughtful; he did not notice the attention he and his party attracted. He had a difficult task before him, which he did not relish; and it was going to be made doubly difficult because of his imperfect knowledge of the English language.

Beside him rode Dr. de Puebla—a man whom he could not like. How was it possible for an Asturian nobleman to have a fondness for a marrano! The fellow might be clever—it was clear that the Sovereigns thought so—but his appearance and his manners were enough to make a Spanish nobleman shudder.

Ayala was of a different kind. A nobleman to his fingertips, but lightminded. Hernan Duque was not very happy with his two colleagues.

“There lies the Palace of Richmond,” said Ayala, and Hernan Duque saw the line of buildings, the projecting towers, the far from symmetrical turrets. He, who had come hot-foot from the Alhambra, was not impressed by the architecture of the country, and he forgot momentarily that the beautiful building with which he was comparing this Palace was a masterpiece of Arabic, not Spanish, architecture.

“The King is often at Richmond,” Ayala explained. “He has a feeling for the place. It may well be that he likes to be near the river, for Greenwich is another favorite residence.”

Puebla put in: “And so we are to obey you without question.”

“The express orders of the Sovereigns,” Hernan Duque replied.

“It seems strange,” grumbled Puebla. “We, who have been here so long, understand the situation so much better than anyone in Spain possibly could.”

“I have their Highnesses’ instructions. It would go ill with you if you did not do all in your power to help me carry them out.”

Puebla tossed his head. “I do not envy you your task. You will find the Tudor is not an easy man with whom to drive a bargain.”

“It is so unfortunate that the death of the Prince occurred at this time.”

“What is your first move?” Ayala asked.

Hernan Duque looked over his shoulder.

“Let us ride on ahead,” said Ayala. “It is better to be absolutely sure. Although it is doubtless safe enough to talk. The English cannot learn the languages of others. Their secret belief is that all who do not speak English are barbarians and that foreigners deserve the name in any case.”

“An insular people,” murmured Duque. “I pity our Infanta.”

“Why should you? Do you not carry orders from their Highnesses that she is to return to Spain?”

“I brought three documents with me. You have seen the first…that which commanded you to obey me in all matters concerning this affair. The second and third are for the eyes of the King. But he will not see the third until he has digested the second. Nor shall he know at this stage that it exists.”

“And the second?” asked Puebla.

“It demands the return of the hundred thousand crowns, the first half of the dowry, which has already been paid.”

“Do you wish to break the heart of the King of England?” demanded Ayala.

“He will not relish this, I know.”

“Relish it!” screamed Ayala. “The King loves those hundred thousand crowns more than he loved his son. You cannot deal him another blow—one so close on the other.”

“I shall do more. I shall demand those revenues which the Prince of Wales promised to his wife on the day of their marriage.”

“The King will never consent to that.”

“I shall then ask for the return of the Infanta to Spain.”

“With the spoils,” put in Ayala, laughing. “Not so bad—the dowry, one third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall, and our Infanta, virginity intact. A pleasant little adventure for the Infanta, and a remunerative one for the Sovereigns. Ah, do you think the King of England will agree?”

“He will not like this, I know,” said Duque. “He will refuse, for I doubt not that he will never be induced to part with the money. Yet what alternative has he except to incur the displeasure of the Sovereigns of Spain? That is why the third document is of such great importance.”

“And this third document?” Puebla asked eagerly.

Duque looked once more over his shoulder. “The King has a second son,” he said quietly.

“Ah!” whispered Ayala.

“Dangerous!” Puebla put in. “He is her brother by marriage. Are we not told in Leviticus that a man is forbidden to marry his brother’s widow?”

“The Pope would give the dispensation. He gave it to Emanuel of Portugal when he married the Infanta Maria on the death of her sister Isabella.”

“That was the dead wife’s sister.”

“The situation is similar. There will be no difficulty if the Pope will give the necessary dispensation. And as it is said that the marriage was never consummated, that should simplify matters.”

“I should like to make sure on that point,” said Puebla. “It is important.” Ayala looked scornfully at the Jew. “Your lawyer’s mind boggles at unimportant details. Rest assured that if the Sovereigns want the dispensation they will get it. Spain is great enough to make sure of that.”

“At first I shall say nothing of this suggested marriage. I wish to alarm the King by demanding the return of the dowry and the transfer of the goods which the Infanta has inherited by her marriage. That will put him into a mood to agree to this second marriage—and it is the wish of the Sovereigns that it should take place.”

“I thought,” said Ayala, “that the Queen would have wished to have her daughter back.”

“She wishes it most fervently, but duty comes before her own personal desires as always. There is another matter. Her health has declined rapidly during the last months. You, who have not seen her for so long, would scarcely know her. I do not think Isabella of Castile is long for this world. She knows it, and she wishes to see her youngest daughter happily settled, with a crown in view, before she departs this life.”

“She need have no fear. Henry will agree to this marriage,” smiled Ayala. “It is the way out for him. He would never allow anyone to take one hundred thousand crowns from him.”

They had reached the gates of the Palace.

With Puebla on one side and Ayala on the other, Hernan Duque rode in; and shortly afterwards Puebla and Ayala presented him to the King, who was very ready to conduct him to a small chamber where they might discuss this matter of the Infanta’s future in private.

IN THE SECLUSION of Durham House, Katharine had no idea that her parents’ envoy had arrived in England with such important documents affecting her future.

She felt at peace, for she was certain that very soon now she would be preparing to make the journey back to Spain. In her apartments, the windows of which overlooked the Thames, she could almost believe she was back in Spain. Here she sat with three of her maids of honor, all of whom were dear to her, and they stitched at their embroidery as they would in their own country.

She could almost believe that at any moment there would be a summons for her to go to her mother’s apartment in this very palace, and that if she looked from the window she would not see the lively London river with its barges, its ferries, its watermen all shouting to each other in the English tongue, but the distant Sierras of Guadarrama or the crystal-clear waters of the Darro.

In the meantime she could live in Durham House as though she were in a Spanish Alcazar and wait for the summons to return home.

Maria de Rojas had grown even prettier in recent weeks. Maria was in love with an Englishman. Francesca de Carceres was only pretending to sew, because she hated to sit quietly and was not fond of the needle; she found life at Durham House irksome, longed for gaiety, and it was only the thought that soon they would be returning to Spain that made it possible for her to endure it. Maria de Salinas worked quietly. She too was happy because she believed they would soon be leaving for Spain.

Francesca, who could never contain her thoughts for long, suddenly burst out: “Maria de Rojas wishes to talk to Your Highness.”

Maria de Rojas flushed slightly, and Maria de Salinas said in her quiet way: “You should not hesitate. Her Highness will help you, I am sure.”

“What is this?” asked Katharine. “Come along, Maria, tell me.”

“She is in love,” cried Francesca.

“With Don Iñigo?” Katharine asked.

Maria de Rojas flushed hotly. “Indeed no.”

“Ah, then it is with the Englishman,” said Katharine. “He returns your affection?”

“He does indeed, Highness.”

“And you wish to marry him?”

“I do, Highness; and his grandfather is willing that we should marry.”

“The consent of the King of England would be necessary,” said Katharine, “and of my parents.”

“Maria is thinking,” Maria de Salinas said, “that if Your Highness wrote to the King and Queen of Spain, telling them that the Earl of Derby is a great English nobleman and his grandson worthy of our Maria, they would readily give their consent.”

“And her dowry also,” put in Katharine. “You may depend upon it, Maria, that I shall write immediately to my parents and ask them to do what is necessary in the matter.”

“Your Highness is good to me,” murmured Maria gratefully. “But it will then be necessary to have the consent of the King of England as well.”

“That will easily be obtained,” answered Francesca, “if the Countess of Richmond is approached first. Her opinion carries more weight with the King of England than anyone else’s.”

“You must ask your lover to arrange the English side of the project,” said Katharine. “As for myself, I will write to my parents without delay.”

Maria de Rojas sank to her knees and taking Katharine’s hand kissed it dramatically.

Francesca laughed and Maria de Salinas smiled.

“What a wonderful thing it is to be in love,” cried Francesca. “How I wish it would happen to me! But there is one thing I should welcome more.”

“And that?” asked Katharine, although she already knew the answer.

“To return home, Highness. To leave this country and go home to Spain.”

“Ah yes,” sighed Katharine. “Which of us does not feel the same—except Maria, who has a very good reason for wishing to stay here. Prepare my writing table. I will write at once to my parents and ask for their consent.”

Maria de Rojas obeyed with alacrity, and the three maids of honor stood about Katharine’s table as she wrote.

“There!” said Katharine. “It is ready. As soon as the messenger leaves for Spain he shall take this with him among other important documents.”

“None is as important as this, Highness,” cried Maria de Rojas, taking the letter and kissing it.

“So when we leave for Spain we shall leave you behind,” said Katharine. “We shall miss you, Maria.”

“Your Highness will be so happy to return home—and so will the others—that you will all forget Maria de Rojas.”

“And what will she care?” demanded Francesca. “She will be happy with her English lord whom she loves well enough to say goodbye to Spain and adopt this country as her own for ever more.”

“That,” answered Katharine soberly, “is love.”

DR. DE PUEBLA called at Durham House. The Infanta had no wish to see him. She found him quite distasteful, and although she was always pleased to see Ayala the little marrano irritated her, and because she knew that he was ridiculed throughout the English Court she felt ashamed of him.

Puebla was well aware of this, but he was not unduly put out; he was accustomed to being scorned and he had an idea that he would remain at his post longer than Don Pedro de Ayala, for the simple reasons that he was more useful to the Sovereigns and that the King of England believed he was as good a friend as any foreign ambassador could be.

His lawyer’s outlook demanded that he know the truth concerning the Infanta’s marriage. Whether or not the marriage had been consummated seemed of enormous importance to him because, if it had not been, it would be a far simpler matter to get the dispensation from the Pope. He was determined to find out.

And who would be more likely to know the truth than Katharine’s confessor? So when Puebla arrived at Durham House it was not to see Katharine that he came, nor yet Doña Elvira, but Katharine’s confessor—Father Alessandro Geraldini.

Geraldini was delighted to be sought out by Puebla. He pretended, with everyone else, to despise the man, but he knew the power of Puebla and he felt, when the ambassador came to see him, that he was becoming of great importance. Had not Torquemada begun as confessor to a Queen? And look what power he had held! Ximenes de Cisneros was another example of a humble Friar who became a great man. Ximenes was reckoned to be the most powerful man in Spain at this time—next to the Sovereigns, of course.

So Geraldini was proud to receive Puebla.

The cunning Puebla was well aware of the feelings of the Friar, and decided to exploit them.

“I would ask your opinion on a very delicate matter,” Puebla began.

“I shall be delighted to give it.”

“It is this matter of the Infanta’s marriage. It seems a very strange thing that two young people should be married and not consummate.”

Geraldini nodded. “As the King forbade consummation it is almost certain that the Infanta would have mentioned in her confessions to her priest if she and her husband had defied the King’s wish.”

Geraldini looked wise.

“A confessor is the one confidant to whom it is possible to tell that which one keeps secret from the world. Is that not so?”

“It is indeed so.”

“Therefore if anyone knows what happened on the Infanta’s wedding night, that person is most likely to be yourself.” The little priest could not hide the pride which showed in his eyes. “In the name of the Sovereigns, I ask you to tell me what happened.”

Geraldini hesitated. He knew that if he told the truth and said he did not know, he would cease to be of any importance to Puebla; that was something he could not endure. He wanted to see himself as the Infanta’s confidant, as a man destined to play a part in Spanish politics.

“You see,” went on Puebla, noticing the hesitancy, “if the marriage was consummated and this fact was kept hidden the bull of dispensation from the Pope might not be valid. It is necessary to lay all the facts before his Holiness. We must have the truth, and you are the man who can give it. You know the answer. Your peculiar position enables you to have it. I pray you give it to me now.”

As it was more than Geraldini could bear to admit ignorance, why should he not make a guess? The young couple had spent the wedding night together according to custom. Surely they must have consummated their marriage. It was but natural that they should.

Geraldini paused only one second longer, then he leaped.

“The marriage has been consummated,” he said. “It is likely that it will prove fruitful.”

Puebla left Durham House with all speed. He first dispatched a letter to the Sovereigns and then sought out members of the King’s Council.

This was what he had hoped. He liked clean-cut facts. If the Infanta carried the heir of England in her womb then there could be no more doubt of her position in Henry’s realm.

The belief that the marriage had not been consummated was highly dangerous. It was a matter about which there would continue to be conjecture.

Puebla was therefore very happy to let it be known that Arthur and Katharine had cohabited and that there might be a hope that their relationship would be a fruitful one.

DOÑA ELVIRA WAS HOLDING in her hand a letter which she had taken from a drawer of her table, where a short while before she had hastily placed it.

The courier had left and was now well on his way to the coast with the letters he was carrying from England to Spain.

“And this,” said Elvira to herself, “will not be one of them.”

She was going to burn it in the flame of a candle as soon as she had shown it to Iñigo, and made him aware that he would have to move faster. He was evidently slow in his courtship if he had allowed Maria de Rojas to prefer this Englishman to himself.

How had the Englishman been in a position to pay court to Maria de Rojas, she would like to know! Clearly there were traitors in the household. She, Doña Elvira Manuel, and she alone, should rule; and if her rule had been absolute, Maria de Rojas would never have exchanged anything but glances with her Englishman.

She suspected three people of seeking to wean Katharine from her. The first was that pernicious little priest, who recently had given himself airs; the second was Don Pedro Ayala whose cynicism and riotous living had earned her disapproval; and of course, like everyone else of noble blood, she disliked Puebla.

She would send for Iñigo. She would show him the letter in Katharine’s handwriting, asking for a dowry for Maria de Rojas; and she would have him know that a son of hers must not allow others to get ahead of him.

She called to one of the pages, but even as she did so the door was flung open and her husband Don Pedro Manrique came into the room. He was clearly distraught, and temporarily Doña Elvira forgot Maria de Rojas and her love affair.

“Well,” she demanded, “what ails you?”

“It is clear that you have not heard this rumor.”

“Rumor! What is this?”

“It concerns the Infanta.”

“Tell me at once,” demanded Doña Elvira, for she expected immediate obedience from her husband as she did from the rest of the household.

“Puebla has told members of the Council that the marriage was consummated and that there is every hope that the Infanta may be with child.”

“What!” cried Elvira, her face growing purple with rage. “This is a lie. The Infanta is as virgin as she was the day she was born.”

“So I had believed. But Puebla has told members of the Council that this is not the case. Moreover he has written to the Sovereigns to tell them what, he says, is the true state of affairs.”

“I must see Puebla at once. But first…let the courier be stopped. It is a lie he is carrying to the Sovereigns.”

“I will dispatch a rider to follow him immediately, but I fear we are too late. Nevertheless I will see what can be done.”

“Hurry then!” Doña Elvira commanded. “And have Puebla brought to me immediately. I must stop the spread of this lie.”

Her husband retreated in haste, leaving Doña Elvira to pace up and down the apartment.

She was certain that Katharine was still a virgin. She would have known if it had been otherwise. There had been only the wedding night when they had been together, and they were both too young, too inexperienced…Beside, the King had made his wishes known.

If what that miserable Puebla was saying was true, if Katharine carried a child within her, then she would no longer be exiled to Durham House; she would be at Court, and that would be the end of the rule of Doña Elvira.

“She is a virgin,” she cried aloud. “Of course she is. I would swear to it. And if necessary there could be an examination.”

DR. DE PUEBLA STOOD before Doña Elvira and her husband. He was a little disturbed by the fury of the woman. She was formidable, and moreover he knew that Queen Isabella regarded her highly.

“I want to know,” she shouted, “why you have dared to tell this lie to members of the Council here, and write it to the Sovereigns.”

“What lie is this?”

“You have declared that the marriage was consummated. Where were you on the wedding night, Dr. de Puebla? Peering through the bed curtains?”

“I have it on good authority that the marriage was consummated, Doña Elvira.”

“On whose authority?”

“On that of the Infanta’s confessor.”

“Geraldini!” Elvira spat out the word. “That upstart!”

“He assured me that the marriage had been consummated and that there was hope of issue.”

“How had he come into possession of such knowledge?”

“Presumably the Infanta had confessed this to him.”

“He lies. One moment.” Elvira turned to her husband. “Send for Geraldini,” she commanded.

In a few minutes the priest joined them. He was a little pale; like everyone in the household he dreaded the fury of Doña Elvira.

“So,” cried Elvira, “you have informed Dr. de Puebla that the marriage between our Infanta and the Prince of Wales was consummated, and that England may shortly expect an heir.”

Geraldini was silent, his eyes downcast.

“Answer me!” shouted Elvira.

“I…I did verily believe…”

“You verily believed indeed! You verily guessed. You fool! Do you dare then dabble in matters which are so far above you! You should be in your monastery, babbling your prayers in your lonely cell. Such as you have no place in Court circles. Confess that the Infanta never told you that the marriage was consummated!”

“She…she did not tell me, Doña Elvira.”

“Yet you dared tell Dr. de Puebla that you knew this to be so!”

“I thought…”

“I know! You verily believed. You knew nothing. Get out of my sight before I order you to be whipped. Begone…quickly. Idiot! Knave!”

Geraldini was relieved to escape.

As soon as he had gone Elvira turned to Puebla. “You see what this meddling has done. If you wish to know anything concerning the Infanta, you must come to me. There is only one thing to be done. You agree now that this man Geraldini has led you completely astray?”

“I do,” said Puebla.

“Then you should write to the Sovereigns immediately, telling them that there is no truth in the news contained in your previous document. If you are quick, you may prevent that first letter from reaching their Highnesses. Let us pray that the tides are not favorable for a few hours. Go at once and set right this matter.”

Although Puebla resented her high-handed manner, he could not but agree that he must do as she said; and he was indeed eager to write to the Sovereigns, rectifying his mistake.

He bowed himself out and set about the task immediately.

When she was alone with her husband Doña Elvira sat at her table and began to write. She addressed her letter to Her Highness Queen Isabella, and she told of the mischief Father Alessandro Geraldini had wrought against the Infanta. She added that she believed Don Pedro de Ayala’s presence in England to be no longer necessary to the welfare of Spain. She hesitated, considering Puebla. He had been docile enough and ready to admit his mistake. She decided that she might be served worse by any other ambassador the Sovereigns saw fit to send. Too many complaints could give the impression that she was hard to please. If because of this matter she could rid the household of Geraldini she would be satisfied.

As she sealed the letter, she remembered that other letter which had angered her before she heard of Geraldini’s gossip.

She took it up and thrust it into her husband’s hands.

“Read that,” she said.

He read it. “But you had decided…” he began.

She cut him short. “I wish Iñigo to see this. Have him brought here immediately, but first have this letter dispatched to the Sovereigns. I should like it to reach them if possible before they receive Puebla’s.”

Don Pedro Manrique obeyed her as, during their married life, he had grown accustomed to; and in a short time he returned to her with their son.

“Ah, Iñigo,” she said, “did I not tell you that I had decided a match with Maria de Rojas would be advantageous to you?”

“You did, Mother.”

“Well then, perhaps you would be interested to read this letter which the Infanta has written to her parents. It is a plea that they should give their consent to the marriage of Maria de Rojas with an Englishman and provide her with a dowry.”

“But, Mother, you…”

“Read it,” she snapped.

Young Iñigo frowned as he read. He felt himself flushing. It was not that he was so eager for marriage with Maria, but that he feared his mother’s wrath, and it seemed as though she were ready to blame him—though he could not quite understand why.

“You have finished it?” She took it from him. “We must not allow others to step ahead of us and snatch our prizes from under our noses, must we?”

“No, Mother. But she wishes to marry the Englishman, and the Infanta supports her.”

“It would appear so.” Elvira was thoughtful. “We shall do nothing yet.”

“But in the meantime the Sovereigns may provide the dowry and the consent.”

“Why should they,” said Elvira, “if they do not know it has been asked for?”

“But it is asked for in the Infanta’s letter,” her husband pointed out.

Elvira laughed and held the letter in the flame of the candle.