Daughters of Spain - Plaidy Jean (онлайн книга без TXT) 📗
‘Then send for the men,’ ordered Juana. And several of the men servants, who had been waiting for this summons, having been warned that it would come, entered the apartment.
Juana pointed to Philip’s mistress. ‘Bind her. Bind her, hand and foot.’
‘Do no such thing,’ cried the woman. ‘It will be the worse for you if you do.’
Juana in her frenzy assumed all the dignity which her mother had always been at great pains to teach her. ‘You will obey me!’ she said quietly. ‘I am the mistress here.’
The men looked at each other and, as the flaxen-haired beauty was about to run from the apartment, one of them caught her and held her fast. The others, following his lead, did as Juana had commanded, and in a few minutes the struggling woman was pinioned, and the stout cords wound about her body. Trussed, she lay at the feet of Juana, her great blue eyes wide with horror.
‘Now,’ said Juana, ‘send for the barber.’
‘What are you going to do?’ cried the woman.
‘You will see,’ Juana told her; and she felt the wild laughter shake her body; but she controlled it. If she were going to take her revenge she must be calm.
The barber entered, carrying the tools of his trade.
‘Place this woman on a chair,’ said Juana.
Again that wild laughter surged up within her. Often she had imagined what she would do with one of Philip’s women if she ever had one at her mercy. She had imagined torture, mutilation, even death for one of those who had caused her so much suffering.
But now she had a brilliant idea. This was going to be the best sort of revenge.
‘Cut off her hair,’ said Juana. ‘Shave her head.’
The woman screamed, while the barber stood aghast, staring at that rippling golden glory.
‘You heard what I said,’ screeched Juana. ‘Do as I say, or I will have you taken to prison. I will have you tortured. I will have you executed. Obey me at once.’
The barber muttered: ‘Yes, yes … Your Grace … yes, yes, my lady.’
‘She is mad, mad,’ screamed the frightened woman, who could imagine few greater tragedies than the loss of her beautiful hair.
But the barber was at work and there was little she could do about it. Juana commanded two of the other men to hold her still, and soon the beautiful locks lay scattered on the floor.
‘Now shave her head,’ cried Juana. ‘Let me see her completely bald.’
The barber obeyed.
Juana was choking with laughter. ‘How different she looks! I do not recognise her. Do you? She’s no beauty now. She looks like a chicken.’
The woman who had shrieked her protests in a manner almost as demented as Juana’s now lay gasping in her chair. She was clearly suffering from shock.
‘You may release her,’ said Juana. ‘You may take her away. Bring a mirror. Let her see how much she owed to those beautiful golden curls of which I have robbed her.’
As the woman was carried out, Juana gave way to paroxysms of laughter.
Philip strode into his wife’s apartments.
‘Philip!’ she cried and her eyes shone with delight.
He was looking at her coldly and she thought: So he went to her first; he has seen her.
Then a terrible fear came to her. He was angry, and not with his mistress for the loss of the beautiful hair which he had found so attractive, but with the one who had been responsible for cutting it off.
She stammered: ‘You have seen her?’ And in spite of herself, gurgling, choking laughter rose in her throat. ‘She … she looks like … a chicken.’
Philip took her by the shoulders and shook her. Yes, he had seen her. He had been thinking of her during the journey to Brussels, thinking with pleasure of the moment of reunion; and then to find her … hideous. That shaved head instead of those soft flaxen curls! He had found her repulsive and had not been able to hide it. He had seen the deep humiliation in her face and had but one desire – to get away from her.
She had said to him: ‘I was tied up, made helpless, and my hair was cut off, my head shaved. Your wife did it … your mad wife.’
Philip said: ‘It will grow.’ And he was thinking: My wife … my mad wife.
He had come straight to her and there was loathing within him.
She was mad. She was more repulsive to him than any woman he had ever known. She dared to do this while he was away. She believed she had some power in his Court. This was because her arrogant parents had reminded her that she was the heiress of Spain.
‘Philip,’ she cried, ‘I did it because she maddened me.’
‘You did not need her to madden you,’ he answered sharply. ‘You were mad already.’
‘Mad? No, Philip, no. Mad only with love for you. If you will be kind to me I will be calm always. It was only because I was jealous of her that I did this. Say you are not angry with me. Say you will not be cruel. Oh, Philip, she looked so queer … that head …’ The laughter bubbled up again.
‘Be silent!’ Philip said coldly.
‘Philip, do not look at me like that. I did it only because …’
‘I know why you did it. Take your hands off me. Never come near me again.’
‘You have forgotten. I am your wife. We must get children …’
He said: ‘We have children enough. Go away from me. I never want you near me again. You are mad. Have a care or I will put you away where you belong.’
She was pulling at his doublet, her face turned up to his, the tears beginning to run down her cheeks.
He threw her off and she fell to the floor as he walked quickly from the room.
Juana remained on the floor, sobbing; then suddenly she began to laugh again, remembering that grotesque shaven head.
None came near her. Outside the apartment her attendants whispered together.
‘Leave her. It is best when the madness is upon her. What will become of her? She grows more mad every day.’
And after a while Juana rose and went to her bed. She lay down and when her women came to her she said: ‘Prepare me for my bed. My husband will be coming to me soon.’
All through the night she waited; but he did not come. She waited through the days and nights that followed, but she did not see him.
She would sit waiting, a melancholy expression on her face; but occasionally she would burst into loud laughter; and each day someone in the Brussels Palace said: ‘She grows a little more insane each day.’
ISABELLA’S END
Isabella lay ill at Medina de Campo. She was suffering from the tertian fever, it was said, and there were signs of dropsy in her legs.
It was June when news was brought to her of that disgraceful episode at the Brussels Court.
‘Oh, my daughter,’ she murmured, ‘what will become of you?’
What could she do? she asked herself. What could she do for any of her daughters? Catalina was in England; she was afraid for Catalina. It was true that she had been formally betrothed to Henry, now Prince of Wales and heir of Henry VII, but she was anxious concerning the bull of dispensation which she had heard had come from Rome and which alone could make legal a marriage between Catalina and Prince Henry. She had not seen the dispensation. Could she trust the wily King of England? Might it not be that he wished to get his greedy hands on Catalina’s dowry, and not care whether the marriage to her late husband’s brother was legal or not?
‘I must see the bull,’ she told herself. ‘I must see it before I die.’
Maria as Queen of Portugal would be happy enough. Emanuel could be trusted. Maria the calm one, unexciting and unexcitable, had never given her parents any anxiety. Her future seemed more secure than that of any other of Isabella’s daughters.
