Jean Plaidy: Katharine, the Virgin Widow

WHAT JOY IT WAS to escape to the house of the Genoese banker! thought Francesca. How merry that man was, and how delighted that Francesca de Carceres should deign to visit him. It was true, of course, that she was of a most noble family and he was merely a banker; but how much more extravagantly he lived, and what great comfort he enjoyed!

She could not recall how many times she had been to his house, ostensibly to visit the ambassador, and how she arranged her visits to fall at those times when she knew Fuensalida would not be present.

She had meant to implore him to do something for Katharine’s maids of honor, who should have marriages arranged for them, but she had found no opportunity of speaking of this matter to the ambassador.

There was so much of interest to see in the house, and her banker delighted in showing her. She had only to admire something, and he implored her to accept it. He was surely the most generous man in the world!

So it was fun to slip on her cloak and hasten to his lodgings.

On this occasion he was waiting for her, and he seemed more serious; as it was unusual to see him serious, she wondered what had happened.

They took wine together with some of those excellent cakes which his cooks made especially for her, and as they sat together he said suddenly: “How strange that I should be Francesco, and you Francesca. It seems yet another link between us.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “it is certainly strange.”

Then he became even more serious and said: “How long can this continue?”

“You mean my visits? Oh, until the Court moves, or until I am discovered and forbidden to come.”

“That would stop you…if you were forbidden?”

“I might be tempted to disobey.”

He leaned towards her and took one of her hands. “Francesca,” he said, “would you consider becoming mistress of this house?”

She grew a little pale, realizing the enormity of what he was suggesting. She…marry him! But her marriage was one which would have to be approved by the Infanta, by the Queen of Castile or by Ferdinand, and by the King of England. Did he not understand that she was not a little seamstress or some such creature to make a match on the spur of the moment?

“The suggestion is repulsive to you?” he said wistfully.

“No… no !” She was emphatic. She was thinking of how dull her life had been before these visits; and how it would seem even more dull if she were forced to give them up. She went on: “Marriages are arranged for people in my position. I should never be allowed to marry you.”

“You have been neglected,” he argued. “To whom do you owe loyalty? As for myself, I am no subject of the King of England. If I wish to marry, I marry. If you decided you did not want to go back to the palace one day, I would have a priest here who should marry us. I would place all my possessions and myself at your service. I love you, Francesca. You are young, you are beautiful, you are of noble birth, but you are a prisoner; and the only one of these attributes which can remain to you is your noble birth. Francesca, do not allow them to bury you alive. Marry me. Have we not been happy together? I will make you happy for the rest of your life.”

Francesca rose. She was trembling.

She must go quickly. She must be alone to think. She was terrified that she would commit some indiscretion which would decide the whole of her future life.

“You are afraid now,” he said gently. “Make no mistake. It is not of me, Francesca, that you should be afraid. You would never be afraid of me. You are bold and adventurous. Not for you the palace prison. Come to me, Francesca, and I will make you free.”

“I must go,” she said.

He did not attempt to detain her.

“You will think of what I have said?” he asked.

“I cannot stop thinking of it,” she answered. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead tenderly. She knew that she was going to feel cheated if she did not see him again. Yet how could she?

JUANA IN THE TOWN OF ARCOS KNEW NOTHING OF THE negotiations which had been going on to marry her to the King of England. She had settled in this most unhealthy climate, but she was quite unaware of the cold winds which penetrated the palace. Her little Catalina had become a lively little girl who seemed readily to accept the strangeness of her mother. Juana had also insisted that her son Ferdinand should be brought to live with her, and this wish had been granted. But little Ferdinand, who was nearly six years old, did not take kindly to his mother’s household. He did not like the coffin which was always prominently displayed; nor did he care to look on his dead father and to see his mother fondling the corpse.

Juana went about the palace dressed in rags, and she did not sit at table but ate her food from a plate on the floor like a cat or a dog. She never washed herself, and there were no women-servants in the house except the old washerwoman.

Music could sometimes be heard being played in the Queen’s apartment; otherwise there was almost continuous silence.

Young Ferdinand was very happy when his grandfather came to Arcos and took him away, although his mother screamed and shouted and had to be held by attendants while he rode away with his grandfather. Ferdinand loved his grandfather, who made much of him.

“We are both Ferdinands,” said the elder Ferdinand, and that delighted the boy, who decided that he would be exactly like his grandfather when he grew up.

Juana might have gone on in this state at Arcos but for the fact that revolt broke out in Andalusia, and it immediately occurred to Ferdinand that the rebels might plan to use her as a figurehead. He decided then that he was going to remove her to the isolated castle of Tordesillas, where it would be so much easier to keep her under restraint.

He came to the Palace of Arcos one day and went straight to those apartments where Juana was sitting, staring moodily at the coffin of her husband. Her hair, which had not been dressed for many months, hung about her haggard face; her face and hands were dirty, and her clothes hung in filthy rags about her gaunt figure.

Ferdinand looked at her in horror. There was indeed no need to pretend that she was mad.

Undoubtedly she must be removed to Tordesillas. He knew that there was a plot afoot to displace him and set up young Charles as King. As Charles was now nine, this arrangement would give certain ambitious men the power they needed; but Ferdinand was determined that the Regency should remain in his hands, and he would be uneasy until Juana was his prisoner in some place where he could keep her well guarded.

“My daughter,” he said as he approached her—he could not bring himself to touch her. As well touch a beggar or gipsy; they would probably be more wholesome—“I am anxious on your account.”

She did not look at him.

“Last time I was here,” he went on, “I did not please you. But you must realize that it is necessary for the people to see little Ferdinand; and what I did was for the best.”

Still she did not answer. It was true then that, although she had raged when he had taken her son, a few days later she had completely forgotten the boy. There was no real place in that deranged mind for anyone but the dead man in the coffin.

Ferdinand went on: “This place is most unhealthy. You cannot continue to live here in this…squalor. I must insist that you leave here. The castle of Tordesillas has been made ready to receive you. It is worthy of you. The climate is good. There you will recover your health.”

She came to life suddenly. “I shall not go. I shall stay here. You cannot make me go. I am the Queen.”