‘Is that the only remedy you can suggest?’
‘We have tried every other remedy, and the fever grips him the more firmly.’
Ferdinand was silent for a while. Then he said: ‘Let us go back to the sickroom.’
He stood at the foot of Juan’s bed and tried to speak jocularly.
‘The doctors tell me that you have become exhausted. They propose keeping you very quiet, and even Margaret shall not visit you.’
‘No,’ said Margaret, ‘I must stay with him.’
Juan put out a hand and gripped that of his wife. He held it tightly and, although he did not speak, it was clear that he wished her to remain with him.
Ferdinand stared at his son’s hand and noticed how thin his wrist had become. He must have lost a great deal of weight in a very short time. Ferdinand was realising at last that his son was very ill indeed.
Yes, he thought, he is very attached to Margaret. They must stay together, for ill as he is there might yet be time to beget an heir. A child conceived in the passion of fever was still a child. If Juan could give Margaret a child before he died, his death would not be such a tragedy.
‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘I could never find it in my heart to separate you.’
He turned and left them together. He was now more than uneasy; he was decidedly worried.
He could not sleep that night. Juan’s condition had worsened during the day and Ferdinand found that he was sharing the general opinion of all those about the Prince.
Juan was very seriously ill.
When he had said good night to him Juan had put his burning lips to his father’s hand and had said: ‘Do not grieve for me, Father. If I am to die, and I think I am, I shall go to a better world than this.’
‘Do not say such things,’ Ferdinand had answered gruffly. ‘We need you here.’
‘Break the news gently to my mother,’ whispered Juan. ‘She loves me well. Tell her that her Angel will watch over her if it is possible for him to do so. Tell her that I love her dearly and that she has been the best mother anyone ever had. Tell her this for me, Father.’
‘You shall tell her such things yourself,’ retorted Ferdinand.
‘Father, you must not grieve for me. I shall be in the happier place. Grieve more for those I leave. Comfort my mother and care for Margaret. She is so young and she does not always understand our ways. I love her very dearly. Take care of her … and our child.’
‘Your child!’
‘Margaret is with child, Father.’
Ferdinand could not hide the joy which illumined his face. Juan saw it and understood.
‘You see, Father,’ he said, ‘if I go, I shall leave you consolation.’
A child! It made all the difference. Why had they not told him before? The situation was not so cruel as he had feared, since Margaret carried the heir to Spain and her Habsburg inheritance.
For the moment Ferdinand forgot to fear that his son might be dying.
But now that he was in his own room he thought of Juan, his gentle son, and how Isabella had doted on her ‘angel’. Juan had never caused them anxiety except over his health. He had been a model son, clever, kindly and obedient.
Ferdinand found that even the thought of the heir whom Margaret carried could not compensate for the loss of his son.
What was he going to tell Isabella? He thought tenderly of his wife who had given such love and devotion to their family. How was he going to break the news to her? She had wept bitterly because she was losing Isabella; she suffered continual anxiety over Juana in Flanders. She was thinking now of the days when Maria and Catalina would be torn from her side. If Juan died … how could he break the news to Isabella?
There was a knock at his door. He started forward and flung it open.
He knew what this message meant even before the man spoke.
‘The physicians think you should come to the Prince’s bedside to say goodbye to him, Highness.’
Ferdinand nodded.
Juan lay back on his pillows, a faint smile on his lips. Margaret was kneeling by his bed, her face buried in her hands. Her body looked as still as that of her dead husband.
Ferdinand faced his daughter-in-law. She seemed much older than the girl who only a few months before had married Juan. Her face was expressionless.
Ferdinand said gently: ‘There is the child to live for, my dear.’
‘Yes,’ answered Margaret, ‘I have the child.’
‘We shall take great care of you, my dear daughter. Let us comfort each other. I have lost the best of sons; you have lost the best of husbands. Your fortitude wins my admiration. Margaret, I do not know how to send this terrible news to his mother.’
‘She will wish to know the truth with all speed,’ Margaret said quietly.
‘The shock would kill her. She has no idea that he was suffering from anything but a mild fever. No, I must break this news gently. I am going to write to her now and tell her that Juan is ill and that you are with child. Two pieces of news, one good one bad. Then I will write again saying that Juan’s condition is giving cause for anxiety. You see, I shall gradually break this terrible news to her. It is the only way she could bear it.’
‘She will be heartbroken,’ Margaret murmured, ‘but I sometimes think she is stronger than any of us.’
‘Nay. At heart she is only a woman … a wife and mother. She loves all her children dearly, but he was her favourite. He was her son, the heir to everything we have fought for.’ Ferdinand suddenly buried his face in his hands. ‘I do not know how she will survive this shock.’
Margaret did not seem to be listening. She felt numb, telling herself that this had not really happened and that she was living through some hideous nightmare. She would wake soon to find herself in Juan’s arms and they would rise from their bed, go to the window and look out on the sunlit patio. They would ride again through the cheering crowds in the streets of Salamanca. She would laugh and say: ‘Juan, last night I had a bad dream. I dreamed that the worst possible thing which could befall me happened to me. And now I am awake, in the sunshine, and I am so happy to be alive because I know how singularly my life has been blessed since I have you.’
Ferdinand felt better when he was taking action. No sooner had he dispatched the two messengers than he called a secretary to him.
‘Write this to Her Highness the Queen,’ he commanded.
And the man began to write as the King dictated:
‘A terrible calamity has occurred in Salamanca. His Highness the King has died of a fever.’
The man stopped writing and stared at Ferdinand.
‘Ah, my good fellow, you look at me as though you think I am mad. No, this is not madness. It is good sense. The Queen will have to learn sooner or later of the death of the Prince. I have been considering how best I can break this news. I fear the effect it will have on her, and in this way I think I can soften the terrible blow. She will have had my two letters telling her of our son’s indisposition. Now I will ride with all speed to her. I shall send a messenger on ahead of me with the news of my death. That would be the greatest blow she could sustain. While she is overcome with the horror of this news I will stride in and confront her. She will be so overjoyed to see me that the blow of her son’s death will be less severe.’
The secretary bowed his head in melancholy understanding, but he doubted the wisdom of Ferdinand’s conduct.
However, it was not for him to criticise the action of his King, so he wrote the letter and, shortly afterwards, left Salamanca.