‘It was cruel … cruel.’
‘Hush, my dearest. You must never question God’s will. You must learn to accept with meekness and fortitude the trials He gives you to bear.’
‘I will try to be as good and strong as you are, Mother.’
‘My child, I fear I am not always strong. We must cease to grieve. We must think of comforting poor Margaret.’
‘She will not die?’
‘No, we think she will live. So you see it is not all tragedy. As for me, I have lost my son and my grandchild. But I have my daughters, have I not? I have my Isabella who may well give me a grandchild before long. I have my Juana who I am sure will have children. Then there is my Maria and my little Catalina. You see I am well blessed with many cherished possessions. They will bring me such happiness as will make up for this great tragedy I have suffered.’
‘Oh, Mother, I hope they will.’ Catalina thought of her sisters: Isabella who had dreamed she heard the voices cursing in her dreams, Juana, whose wildness had always caused the greatest anxiety. Maria? Herself? What would happen to them?
In the Brussels Palace Juana heard the news from Spain. It came in an affectionate letter from her mother. A terrible tragedy had befallen their House. The heir had died only a few months after his marriage, and all their hopes had been centred on a child of this union who was stillborn.
‘Write me some good news of yourself,’ Isabella begged her daughter. ‘That will do more than anything to cheer me.’
The letter fluttered from Juana’s hand. The troubles in Madrid seemed far away, and she had almost forgotten that she had ever lived there, so completely absorbed was she by the gay life of Brussels.
This was the way to live. Here balls, banquets, dancing, festivities were what mattered. Philip implied this and Philip was always right.
Juana could not think of her handsome husband without being overcome by many mingling emotions. Chief of these was her desire for him; she could scarcely bear to be absent from him and, when she was in his presence, she could not keep her eyes from watching him or her hands from reaching out to touch him.
This had amused him in the beginning. He had quickly initiated her into the erotic experiences which made up the greater part of his life, and she had followed eagerly, for everything that he did seemed wonderful and she was eager to share in it.
Some of her retinue who had come with her into Flanders warned her. ‘Be a little more discreet, Highness. Do not be over eager for his embraces.’
But there was no restraint in Juana. There never had been; she could not begin learning, now that she was face to face with the greatest emotional experience of her life.
She wanted Philip with her every hour of the day and night. She could not hide the burning desire which was like a frenzy. Philip laughed at it. It had been very amusing at first.
Later she feared he was less amused and had begun to avoid her.
There were the mistresses. She could never be sure who was his mistress of the moment. It might be some little lace-maker whom he had seen on his journeys through the dominions, fancied and set up near the Palace that he might visit her. It might be – and so often was – one of the ladies of the Court.
When she saw these women Juana felt near to murder. She wanted to mutilate them in some way so that they would be hideous instead of desirable in his eyes.
There were nights when he did not visit her; when she knew that he was with some mistress. Then she would lie, biting her pillow, weeping passionate tears, giving vent to uncontrolled laughter, forgetting everything but her desire for Philip, the most handsome man in the world.
One of the Flemish women had whispered slyly: ‘He takes his mistress. There are some who would say, if Your Highness took a lover, that you were provoked to it. Perhaps he would.’
‘Take a lover!’ cried Juana. ‘You do not know Philip. What other man could ever satisfy or please me in the smallest way since I have known him!’
They were beginning to say in the Brussels Palace that Juana’s wildness was alarming because it was not merely the fury of a jealous wife. It went deeper than that.
They avoided her eyes whenever possible.
Juana was now finding it difficult to think of her mother far away in Madrid, and this tragedy which had befallen her family. She stared into space trying to remember them all, those wearying days of sitting in the nursery stitching at some tiresome piece of needlework. She remembered being beaten because she had run away when it was time to go to confession.
She laughed aloud at the vague memory. All that was past. Philip would never beat her because she had failed to go to confession. Philip had not a great deal of respect for priests, and life in Brussels was very different from that in Madrid. There was not the same solemnity, the wearying religious services. The rule in Brussels was: Enjoy yourself. The Flemish people, lacking the dignity of the Spaniards, believed they had been put on this Earth to enjoy themselves. It was a doctrine which appealed to Juana.
Everything about Flanders appealed to Juana. It must be so, because Philip was in Flanders.
She was not sure now whether Philip would regard this news from Spain as a tragedy; and if he did not, how could she?
There was another side to Philip’s nature besides his sensuality and his love of gaiety. He was not the son of Maximilian for nothing. He was proud of the possessions which were now his and those greater ones which he would inherit. He had wanted Juana for his bride, before he had seen her, because she was the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand and great good could come to him through union with such an heiress.
Philip was ambitious.
He had been rather pleased, she knew, when he had heard of Juan’s death, and not so pleased when he had heard that there was to be a child.
‘By God, Juana,’ he had cried, ‘now that your brother is dead, who will be the Spanish heir? Tell me that. That sickly sister of yours? The Aragonese are a fierce people. They do not believe women should be their rulers. And quite right too, my love. Quite right too. Do you not agree with me?’
‘Oh yes, Philip.’
He slapped her buttocks jauntily, because it amused him on occasions to treat the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella as though she were a tavern girl.
‘That’s a good girl, Juana. Always agree with your husband. That makes him pleased with you.’
She held her face up to his and murmured his name.
‘By God, woman,’ said Philip, ‘you are insatiable. Later perhaps … if you are a good girl. Listen carefully to what I have to say. If it had not been for this child your brother’s wife is to have, you and I would be Prince and Princess of Castile.’
‘Philip, you would be very pleased then?’
‘I should be very pleased with my little Juana. But now I am not so pleased. If this child is a son … well, then, my little Juana does not bring the same gifts to her doting husband, does she?’
He had caressed her mildly and then had pushed her from him in order to go to one of his mistresses, she felt sure, because he was not pleased with her. A child had been conceived and therefore Philip was not pleased with his wife.
She had cursed Margaret for her fruitfulness. Such a short time married, and already to have conceived a child which Philip did not want! How tiresome of her.
But now there was this news and Philip would be delighted. She must go to him at once.
Before she could leave her apartment there was a knock on her door and a priest entered.
Juana frowned, but this man was Fray Matienzo, a confidential priest whom her mother had sent to Flanders to watch over her daughter; and although Juana was far from Isabella she still remembered the awe in which even she had held her mother.