Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean - Страница 38

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She turned to them, her eyes wide and wild. “I have prayed so much,” she said quietly, “and my prayers have rarely been answered. I prayed for love. It was denied me. So why should I pray for life?”

The women exchanged glances. There is no doubt, said those looks, the madness is near.

One of them whispered: “Your mother would wish you to pray if she were here.”

Juana was silent and they knew that she was thinking of Queen Isabella.

“I must do what she would wish,” she murmured as though to herself. Then she shouted: “Come, help me dress. Find my richest gown and put it on me. Then bring me a purse of gold pieces.”

“Your richest dress, Highness,” stammered one of the women.

“That is what I said. My richest dress and gold which shall be strapped to my body. When I am washed up on some distant shore I would not have them say: ‘Here is a woman done to death by the sea’ but ‘Here is a Queen!’ That is what my mother would wish. I will write a note to say that the money is for my burial…a Queen’s burial. Come, why do you stand there? There may be little time left. We can scarcely hear ourselves speak now. We can scarcely keep upright. My dress…the purse…”

She was laughing wildly as they went to obey her.

* * *

IN HER CEREMONIAL GOWN, her purse strapped firmly to her waist, Juana stumbled to her husband’s cabin. She scarcely recognized Philip the Handsome in the pale-faced man who shouted orders in a high voice cracked with fear, while his attendants helped him into an inflated leather jacket. Where was the swaggering heir of Maximilian now? The fair hair was in disorder, there were smudges of fatigue under the blue eyes, and the beautiful mouth was petulant and afraid.

“Come,” screamed Philip. “Is this thing safe? Fasten it. Do you think we have hours to waste. At any minute…”

Even as he spoke there was a sudden cry of “Fire!” and an ominous flickering light rapidly lightened the darkness.

Juana, standing serene now in her rich garments, said in a voice much calmer than usual: “The ship is on fire.”

“On fire!” shouted Philip. “Put out the fire. Put out the fire. What will become of us!”

Don Juan Manuel, who was accompanying the royal party to Spain, said quietly: “All that can be done is being done, Highness.”

“Where are the rest of the ships? Are they standing by?”

“Highness, we have lost the rest of the ships. The storm has scattered them.”

“Then what is to be done? We are doomed.”

No one answered, and then Philip turned and looked into the face of his wife who stood beside him. They seemed in that moment to take measure of each other. She in her rich gown with the purse tied to her waist was calmly awaiting death. Philip, in his inflated leather garment which his attendants swore would keep him afloat in a rough sea, was afraid.

She laughed in his face. “We are together now, Philip,” she cried. “You cannot leave me now.”

Then she flung herself at his feet and embraced his knees. “I will cling to you,” she went on. “I will cling so closely that Death will not be able to separate us.”

Philip did not answer; he remained still, looking down at her; and it seemed to some who watched them that he found comfort in her arms which were about him.

She became tender and astonishingly calm, as though she realized that his fear made it necessary for her to be the strong one now.

“Why, Philip,” she said, “whoever heard of a King’s being drowned? There was never a King who was drowned.”

Philip closed his eyes as though he could not bear to contemplate the signs of impending disaster. His hand touched the leather garment on which the words “The King, Don Philip” had been painted in huge letters. He who had been so vital had never thought of death. He was not yet thirty years of age, and life had given him so much. It was only Juana whose mind often led her into strange paths, only Juana, who had suffered deeply, who could look death in the face with a smile which was not without welcome.

He heard her voice shouting amid the tumult: “I am hungry. Is it not time we ate? Bring me a box with something to eat.”

One of the men went off to do her bidding while she remained smiling, her arms about her trembling husband’s knees.

* * *

THE FIRE WAS NOW under control, thanks to the almost superhuman efforts of the crew. The ship was listing badly, and with the coming of day it was seen that land was close at hand.

Philip cried out in relief, shouting that they must make for dry land with all speed.

Don Juan Manuel was at his side. “This is England,” he said. “If we land, we put ourselves in the hands of the Tudor.”

“What else could we do?” demanded Philip. “Is the Tudor more to be feared than a grave in the ocean bed?”

Don Juan admitted that until their ship was repaired they would have little hope of reaching Spain.

Philip spread his hands. The sight of land had restored his good spirits, because in his youthful arrogance he believed himself capable of handling the Tudor King; and it was only death that terrified him.

“We’ll make for the shore with all speed,” he said.

So at last into the shallow harbor of Melcombe Regis came the battered ship carrying Juana and Philip. The people all along the coast as far as Falmouth had seen that a fleet of ships was in distress, and they were unsure as to whether these ships belonged to friends or enemies.

They gathered on the beaches, brandishing bows and arrows and their farming implements; and when Philip and Juana came into Melcombe Regis harbor they found a crowd of uncertain English men and women waiting for them.

The ship’s company had gathered on the deck, and for some moments the people ashore believed that the strangers had come to attack them, for their pleas for help were unintelligible.

Then a young man, obviously of the gentry, pushed himself to the front of the crowd on the quay and shouted to the people on deck in French: “Who are you? And why do you come here?”

The answer came: “We are carrying The Archduke and Duchess of Austria, King and Queen of Castile, who were on their way to Spain and have been wrecked on your shores.”

That was enough. A stout, red-faced man came to stand beside the young man who had spoken in French.

“Tell them,” he said, “that they must accept my hospitality. Let them come ashore and rest awhile in my house while I inform the King’s Grace of their arrival.”

Thus Philip and Juana landed in England, and while they were given a sample of lavish English hospitality in the manor house of Sir John Trenchard in Melcombe Regis, close by Weymouth, couriers rode to Court to inform the King of the arrival of the royal pair.

* * *

HOW PLEASANT IT WAS to be on dry land, and how generous was the hospitality bestowed upon the party by Sir John Trenchard and his household.

Juana and Philip were introduced to the comforts of an English manor house. Fires roared in enormous open fireplaces; great joints of meat turned on the kitchen spits and from the kitchens came the smell of baking.

Philip was happy to relax, and so delighted to be on terra firma that, for a few days, he was kind to Juana, who was accordingly filled with bliss.

News came that other ships of their fleet had found refuge along the coast as far west as Falmouth. Some were not damaged beyond repair and could in a short time put to sea again.

This was comforting news, for when the storm had abated the weather was mild and the seas so calm that Don Juan Manuel was eager to continue with the journey.

Sir John Trenchard was bluffly indignant when this was suggested.

Nay, he declared. He’d not allow it. He would not be denied the honor of offering a little more entertainment to his distinguished guests. Why, his King would never forgive him if he let them go. It would seem churlish.

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