Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean - Страница 37

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JUANA, QUEEN OF CASTILE, was happy at last. She was on a ship bound for Castile, and her husband was with her; and while they sailed together it was impossible for him to escape her.

She was wildly gay; she would stand on deck, her face held to the wind while it loosened her hair and set it flying about her head. Her attendants looked at her anxiously, then covertly; as for her husband, sometimes he jeered at her, sometimes he was ironically affectionate—so much depended on his mood.

Philip was a man of moods. He changed his plans from day to day, as he changed his mistresses. If he had held a place less prominent in world politics this would have been of less importance; as it was he was becoming noted for his inconsequential ways, and this was dangerous in a son of Maximilian. There was no ruler in Europe who did not view him with disquiet. Yet, he was one of the most powerful men in Europe on account of his position; he knew it. It delighted him. He loved power, whether it was in politics or in his affairs with women.

He came on deck to stand beside his wife.

How mad she looks! he thought, and he was exultant. He would exact complete obedience or he would have her put away. It would be no lie to say: “I must keep her in safe custody. Alas, my wife is a madwoman.”

Yet there were times when it was necessary to say: “Oh no, she is not mad. A little impulsive, a little hysterical, but that is not madness.”

This was one of the latter occasions, because he was going to claim her Crown of Castile. The people of Spain would never accept the son of Maximilian as their ruler; they would only accept the husband of their Queen Isabella’s daughter, Juana, who was now herself Queen of Castile.

Juana turned to look at him, and that soft, yearning look which sometimes amused, sometimes sickened him, came into her eyes.

How beautiful he is! she thought. The wind had brought a richer color to his cheeks, which were always rosy; his long golden hair fell to his shoulders; his features were like those of a Greek god; his blue eyes sparkled with health and the joy of living. He was not tall, nor was he short; he was slim and he moved with grace. The title of Philip the Handsome, by which he was known, had not been given out of idle flattery.

“The wind is rising,” she said, but her expression said something else, as it always did when he was near her. It implored him to stay with her every hour of the day and night, it betrayed the fact that she was only happy when he was with her.

Philip turned to her suddenly and gripped her wrist. She felt the pain of this, but he was often cruel to her and she welcomed his cruelty. She was happier when he laid his hands on her—no matter how brutally—than when he reserved his affection or anger for others.

“I anticipate trouble with that sly old fox, your father.”

She winced. She was, after all, Isabella’s daughter, and Isabella had taught her children the importance of filial duty. Even in wild Juana, besotted as she was by her desire for this cruelly wayward husband, the influence of the great Isabella still persisted.

“I doubt not that he will be pleased to see us,” she began.

“Pleased? I’ll tell you what, my dear wife: He’s hoping we shall perish at sea. He’s hoping that he can take our son Charles under his guidance and rule Castile and Aragon as the boy’s Regent. That’s what Ferdinand hopes. And we are in his way.”

“It cannot be so. He is my father. He loves me.”

Philip laughed. “That’s your foolish woman’s reasoning. Your father never loved anything but crowns and ducats.”

“Philip, when we are in Castile, don’t put me away. Let me stay with you.”

He put that handsome head on one side and smiled at her sardonically. “That depends on you, my dear. We cannot show a madwoman to the people of Castile.”

“Philip, I am not mad.… I am not mad…not when you’re kind to me. If you would only be affectionate to me. If there were no other women…”

“Ah,” Philip mocked. “You ask too much.” Then he began to laugh and laid an arm about her shoulder. Immediately she clung to him, her feverish fingers tearing at his doublet: He looked at her with distaste and, turning from her to stare at the heaving water, he said: “This time, you will obey me. There shall be nothing like that Conchillos affair again, eh?”

Juana began to tremble.

“You have forgotten that little matter?” went on Philip. “You have forgotten that, when your father sought to become Regent of Castile, you were persuaded by that traitor, Conchillos, to sign a letter approving of your father’s acts?”

“I did it because you were never with me. You did not care what became of me. You spent all your time with that big Flemish woman…”

“So you turned traitor out of jealousy, eh? You said to yourself, I will serve my father, and if that means I am the enemy of my husband, what do I care?”

“But I did care, Philip. If you had asked me I would never have signed it. I would have done everything you asked of me.”

“Yet you knew that by signing that letter you went against my wishes. You set yourself on the side of your father against me. You thought you would take a little revenge because I preferred another woman to you. Look at yourself sometimes, my Queen. Think of yourself, and then ask yourself why I should prefer to spend my nights with someone else.”

“You are cruel, Philip. You are too cruel.…”

He gripped her arm, and again she bore the pain. She thought fleetingly: it will be bruised tomorrow. And she would kiss those bruises because they were the marks made by his fingers. Let him be cruel, but never let him leave her.

“I ask you to remember what happened,” said Philip quietly. “Conchillos was put into a dungeon. What became of him there I do not know. But it was just reward, was it not, my cherished one, for a man who would come between a husband and his wife. As for my little Queen, my perfidious Juana, you know what happened to her. I had her put away. I said: My poor wife is suffering from delusions. She has inherited her madness from her mad grandmother, the old lady of Arevalo. It grieves me that I must shut her away from the world for a while. Remember. You are free again. You may be a sane woman for a while. You may go to Castile and claim your crown. But take care that you do not find yourself once more shut away from the world.”

“You use me most brutally, Philip.”

“Remember it,” he murmured, “and be warned by it.”

He turned then and left her, and she looked after him longingly. With what grace he walked! He was like a god come to Earth from some pagan heaven. She wished she could control her desire for him; but she could not; it swamped all her emotions, all her sense. She was ready to jettison pride, dignity, decency—everything that her mother had taught her was the heritage of a Princess of Spain—all these she would cast aside for a brief ecstatic hour of Philip’s undivided attention.

* * *

THERE WAS DISASTER ABOARD. A few hours before, when they had sailed into the English Channel, there had been a strange calm on the sea and in the sky which had lasted almost an hour; then suddenly the wind rose, the sky darkened and the storm broke.

Juana left her cabin; the wind pulled at her gown and tore her hair from the headdress. She laughed; she was not afraid. There was no one on board who feared death less than she did.

“We shall die together,” she shouted. “He cannot leave me now. I shall be by his side; I shall wrap my arms about him and we shall go to meet Death together…together at last.”

Two of her women came to her; they believed that a fit of madness was about to take possession of her. It seemed understandable. Everyone on board ship was terrified and fearful that they would never reach Castile.

“Highness,” they said, “you should be at your prayers.”

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