But I have many years left to me, he assured himself, refusing to think of death. It was true he was nearly sixty-four years old—a good age—but his father had been long-lived and, but for this dropsy and the accursed difficulty in breathing, he would not feel his age. He had a young wife, and he still endeavored to persuade her that he was young, yet he was beginning to wonder if the continual use of aphrodisiacs did not aggravate his condition.

As he sat brooding thus he was joined by the Duke of Alva who looked at him keenly and said: “Your Highness yearns for the fresh air of the country. Come to my place near Placencia. There are stags in plenty and good hunting.”

Ferdinand felt young at the thought of the hunt.

“Let us leave this very day,” he said.

When they came into the country he took deep breaths of the December air. Ah, he thought, this suits me well. I am a young man again in the country. He looked at Germaine who rode beside him. She was so fresh and youthful that it did him good to see her; yet his thoughts strayed momentarily to his wife Isabella who had been a year older than he was, and he felt a sudden desire to be back in those old days when he and Isabella had fought for a kingdom, and at times for supremacy over each other.

As usual the fresh air was beneficial and he found that if the day’s hunting was not too long, he could enjoy it. Alva, concerned for his health, made sure that the hunt finished when the King showed signs of fatigue, and Ferdinand began to feel better.

In January he decided that he should travel on to Andalusia, for he was never one to neglect state duties for pleasure.

Perhaps the hunt had been too strenuous, perhaps the journey was too arduous, but Ferdinand was finding it so difficult to breathe that by the time his party reached the little village of Madrigalejo not far from Truxillo, he could not go on.

There was great consternation among his followers as there was no place worthy to provide a lodging for the King. Yet stop they must, and certain friars in the village came forward and said they had a humble house which they would place at the King’s disposal.

The house was small indeed; rarely in his adventurous life had Ferdinand rested in such a place; but he knew that he could not go on, so he gasped out his gratitude to the friars, and allowed himself to be helped to a rough bed.

He looked round the small room and grimaced. Was this the place where the most ambitious man in Europe was to spend his last days on Earth?

Almost immediately he laughed at himself. His last days! He had never been easily defeated and he would not be now. After a little rest he would be ready to go on with his journey; he had learned one lesson; he would take more rest; he would give up his rejuvenating potions and live more as a man of his years must expect to live. If he curtailed his physical exercise he could direct state affairs from a couch. He thanked God that he was in possession of his mental powers.

But as he lay in that humble dwelling news was brought from the village of Velilla in Aragon. In this village was a bell which was said to be miraculous; when any major disaster was about to befall Aragon the bell tolled. Certain bold men had sought to stop the bell’s tolling only to be dashed to death. The bell, it was said, rang and stopped of its own volition, when the warning had been given.

Now, said rumor, the bell of Velilla was tolling for the imminent death of great Ferdinand of Aragon.

So stunned by this were those about him that Ferdinand asked what ailed them; and one, unable to withstand the insistent interrogation, told Ferdinand that the bell of Velilla had given a warning of imminent disaster.

Ferdinand was horrified because until this moment he had not believed death could possibly come to him. To other men, yes; but in his youth he had seen himself as an immortal; such self-made legends died slowly.

But the bell was tolling…tolling him out of life.

He said: “I must make my will.”

He thanked God…and Isabella…in that moment for Ximenes, because thinking of the tolling of the Velilla bell, his great anxiety was not for himself but for the good of his country. Ximenes he could trust. There was a man who was above reproach, above ambition, who would never give honors to his friends and family unless he honestly believed they deserved them. He remembered even now all he owed to Isabella, and he would serve Isabella’s family with all his powerful ability.

Then Cardinal Ximenes, Archbishop of Toledo, should be the Regent of Spain, until such time as his grandson was ready to rule it.

Ximenes would support Charles, he knew. Ferdinand grimaced. Oh, that I were not on my death-bed! Oh, that I might fight for a kingdom and bestow it on my grandson Ferdinand!

But this was a matter outside the control of a dying man. There was no question of the succession of Castile; as for the succession of Aragon and Naples they must fall to Juana—mad Juana, a prisoner in Tordesillas—and to her heirs. The Regency of Castile should go to Ximenes and that of Aragon to his dear son the Archbishop of Saragossa.

Ferdinand could smile wryly, and it seemed to him then that his first wife Isabella was at his bedside and that he snapped his fingers at her. “Yes, Isabella, my bastard son, my dear one on whom I bestowed the Archbishopric of Saragossa when he was six years old. How shocked you were, my prim Isabella, when you discovered his existence! But see, he is a good and noble boy, of sound good sense and beloved by the people. The Aragonese love my illegitimate son more than you did, Isabella.”

He would not forget his grandson Ferdinand. He should have an annual income of fifty thousand ducats and a share in Naples. As for Germaine, she must be provided for. She should have thirty thousand gold florins, and five thousand should be added to that while she remained a widow. Would that be long? He pictured her—gay Germaine—with a husband who did not have to resort to potions. Jealous anger almost choked him and he had to restrain himself in order to get back his breath.

He saw a man standing at his bedside and demanded: “Who is there?” Some of his servants came forward and said: “Highness, it is Adrian of Utrecht who has arrived here, having heard of the indisposition of Your Highness.”

Ferdinand turned his face to the wall to hide his anger. Adrian of Utrecht, the chief adviser of his grandson Charles.

So, he thought, the carrion crows have arrived already. They sit and wait for the last flicker of life to subside. They are mistaken. I’m not going to die.

He turned and gasped: “Tell…that man to go. He has come too soon. Send him away.”

So Adrian of Utrecht was forced to leave the house. But Ferdinand was wrong.

A few days later when his gentlemen came to his bed to wish him good morning, they found that he was dead.

The Princess Mary

THE CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES WERE OVER AND KATHARINE was glad. She was expecting the child in February and was determined not to exhaust herself by overexertion.

Henry continued tender. He was quite happy for her to be a mere spectator at those entertainments in which he played the central part. He could tell her solicitously that she was to retire to bed and rest; then he would be off to Elizabeth Blount or perhaps to some other young woman who had caught his passing fancy.

Katharine did not mind. She was patiently waiting.

That winter was a hard one—the coldest in living memory—and it was while the frost was at its worst, and the ice on the Thames so thick that carts could pass over it, that news was brought to Henry of the death of Ferdinand.

He received it with elation. Ferdinand, that old trickster, was dead. Henry would never have completely forgiven him for duping him as he had. It was the passing of an era; he knew that well. There would be a new ruler in Spain. Henry wanted to laugh aloud. It would be that boy whom he had met in Flanders—that slow-speaking young oaf, with the prominent eyes and the pasty skin. There would be one who was a complete contrast to Ferdinand.

He was far from displeased. Now he would turn his hatred and envy of the Spanish ruler to the King of France, that sly-eyed, fascinating creature who was bold and had begun his reign—as Henry had longed to do—by offering his people conquest.

But for the time being, Ferdinand was dead.

“This will be a shock to the Queen,” he said to Wolsey when they discussed the news. “It would be better to keep it from her until after the child is born.”

“Your Grace’s thoughtfulness is equalled only by your wisdom.”

“You agree, eh, she should not be told?”

“It would be unwise to tell her in her present state. There might be another disaster.”

The King nodded. His eyes had become cunning. Wolsey followed his thoughts. Katharine had lost a powerful ally in her father. If the King should decide to repudiate her now, there would be no great power in Europe to be incensed by this treatment of her, for in place of a warlike and cunning father-protector she had only a young and inexperienced nephew.

Wolsey thought: Bear a healthy son, Katharine, or you will be in acute danger.

“I will let it be known,” said Wolsey, “that on pain of Your Grace’s displeasure, none is to tell the Queen of her father’s death.”


* * *

IT WAS ON the 18th day of February of the year 1516, in the Palace of Greenwich, when Katharine’s child was born.

Katharine came out of her agony to hear the cry of a child.