Catalina, she took great courage from this girl, who seemed quite unperturbed that she had come to a land of strangers to marry a man whom she had only recently met.
A banquet had been prepared, and Juan and his bride sat with the King and Queen; and they talked of the jousting and festivities which had been arranged to celebrate the marriage.
'It is a pity that it is Lent,' said the Queen. 'But as soon as it is over the nuptials shall be solemnised. We think that the third of April shall be the day of the wedding.'
Catalina looked quickly at the face of the Flemish Archduchess; she was relieved to see that the mention of a date for her wedding did not seem to disturb her.
It was the most magnificent spectacle seen in Spain for many years.
This was, after all, the wedding of the heir to the throne. It seemed more than the celebration of a wedding. Spain had never seemed to hold out such hopes of a prosperous future for her people. The prospects for peace were brighter than they had been for many years. No more taxes to pay for useless battles! No more forcing men from their peaceful labours to fight in the armies! Peace meant prosperity - and it seemed that here it was at last.
The charming young bridegroom would be the first heir of the whole of Spain, and the people had come to realise that a united Spain was happier to live in than a country divided into kingdoms which were continually warring with each other.
Even the frugal Isabella was determined that this marriage of her only son should be an occasion which all should remember, and she was therefore ready to spend a great deal of money in making it so.
All over the country there were tourneys and fetes. Towns were gaily decorated throughout the land. Across the narrow streets in the smallest villages banners hung.
'Long life to the heir!' cried the people. 'Blessings on the Prince of the Asturias and his bride!'
The marriage was celebrated with the greatest dignity and ceremony. The Archbishop of Toledo performed it, and withhim were the grandees of Castile and the nobility of Aragon. It was a sight of great magnificence and splendour.
And as Margaret made her vows once more she compared her bridegroom with that boy of twelve to whom she had been betrothed in a farmhouse near the chateau of Amboise, and again she rejoiced in her good fortune.
Juan had dreaded the moment when they would be alone together. He had imagined the terrors of a young girl who might not fully understand what would be required of her, and himself explaining as gently as he could; he had not relished the task.
When they lay in the marriage bed it was Margaret who spoke first.
'Juan,' she said, 'you are afraid of me.'
'I am afraid that I might distress you,' he answered.
'No,' she told him. 'I shall not be distressed.'
'Are you never distressed, Margaret?'
'Not by that which must be.'
Juan lifted her hand and kissed it. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'As you say, what must be, must be.'
Then she laughed suddenly and, pulling her hand away from him, she put her arms about him.
'I am so glad that you are as you are, Juan,' she said. 'I am sure nothing you do could possibly distress me. When I think that it might have been Charles lying beside me at this moment ...' She shivered.
'Charles? The King of France?'
'He has thick lips, and he grunts. He is not unkind but he would be coarse and ... he would never understand me.'
'I hope to understand you, Margaret.'
'Call me Margot,' she said. 'It is my special name ... the name I like those whom I love to call me by.'
'Do you love me then, Margot?'
'I think so, Juan. I think I must, because ... I am not afraid.'
And so the difficulty was soon over, and that which had alarmed them became a pleasure. She taught him to laugh in her gay Flemish way, and he found himself fascinated by her familiar talk which might have seemed coarse on some lips, never on hers.
'Oh Juan,' she cried, 'I thought my bones would now be lying on the sea bed and
A banquet had been prepared, and Juan and his bride sat with the King and Queen; and they talked of the jousting and festivities which had been arranged to celebrate the marriage.
'It is a pity that it is Lent,' said the Queen. 'But as soon as it is over the nuptials shall be solemnised. We think that the third of April shall be the day of the wedding.'
Catalina looked quickly at the face of the Flemish Archduchess; she was relieved to see that the mention of a date for her wedding did not seem to disturb her.
It was the most magnificent spectacle seen in Spain for many years.
This was, after all, the wedding of the heir to the throne. It seemed more than the celebration of a wedding. Spain had never seemed to hold out such hopes of a prosperous future for her people. The prospects for peace were brighter than they had been for many years. No more taxes to pay for useless battles! No more forcing men from their peaceful labours to fight in the armies! Peace meant prosperity - and it seemed that here it was at last.
The charming young bridegroom would be the first heir of the whole of Spain, and the people had come to realise that a united Spain was happier to live in than a country divided into kingdoms which were continually warring with each other.
Even the frugal Isabella was determined that this marriage of her only son should be an occasion which all should remember, and she was therefore ready to spend a great deal of money in making it so.
All over the country there were tourneys and fetes. Towns were gaily decorated throughout the land. Across the narrow streets in the smallest villages banners hung.
'Long life to the heir!' cried the people. 'Blessings on the Prince of the Asturias and his bride!'
The marriage was celebrated with the greatest dignity and ceremony. The Archbishop of Toledo performed it, and withhim were the grandees of Castile and the nobility of Aragon. It was a sight of great magnificence and splendour.
And as Margaret made her vows once more she compared her bridegroom with that boy of twelve to whom she had been betrothed in a farmhouse near the chateau of Amboise, and again she rejoiced in her good fortune.
Juan had dreaded the moment when they would be alone together. He had imagined the terrors of a young girl who might not fully understand what would be required of her, and himself explaining as gently as he could; he had not relished the task.
When they lay in the marriage bed it was Margaret who spoke first.
'Juan,' she said, 'you are afraid of me.'
'I am afraid that I might distress you,' he answered.
'No,' she told him. 'I shall not be distressed.'
'Are you never distressed, Margaret?'
'Not by that which must be.'
Juan lifted her hand and kissed it. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'As you say, what must be, must be.'
Then she laughed suddenly and, pulling her hand away from him, she put her arms about him.
'I am so glad that you are as you are, Juan,' she said. 'I am sure nothing you do could possibly distress me. When I think that it might have been Charles lying beside me at this moment ...' She shivered.
'Charles? The King of France?'
'He has thick lips, and he grunts. He is not unkind but he would be coarse and ... he would never understand me.'
'I hope to understand you, Margaret.'
'Call me Margot,' she said. 'It is my special name ... the name I like those whom I love to call me by.'
'Do you love me then, Margot?'
'I think so, Juan. I think I must, because ... I am not afraid.'
And so the difficulty was soon over, and that which had alarmed them became a pleasure. She taught him to laugh in her gay Flemish way, and he found himself fascinated by her familiar talk which might have seemed coarse on some lips, never on hers.
'Oh Juan,' she cried, 'I thought my bones would now be lying on the sea bed and
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