When Ferdinand saw her, he was horrified. It was years since they had met, but the lapse of time did not entirely account for the great change. It was almost impossible to believe that this sad woman, with the melancholy eyes in which madness lurked, was his gay daughter who had often shocked her mother by her wildness.

Juana also was not unmoved. She found herself in those first moments of reunion remembering the days of her childhood, when she, her brother, sisters, father and mother had all been together.

She went on her knees and gripped her father’s hands, while Ferdinand, astonished at his emotion, knelt too and, putting his arms about her, held her tenderly.

“My daughter, my daughter,” he murmured, “what has happened to bring you to this?”

“Oh, my father,” she murmured, “I have suffered as few are called upon to suffer. I have lost all that I love.”

“There are your children. They can bring great comfort.”

“They are his children too,” she said, “but when he died the sun went from life. Now there is only darkness, for it is perpetual night.”

Ferdinand rose from his knees, his emotion evaporating. If Juana was really as mad as she seemed, then the way would be easy. He could now be sure of taking the Regency.

“I will care for you now,” he said, and she did not notice the glint in his eyes; nor did she see any hidden meaning in his words.

“It is a joy to me that you have come,” she said.

Ferdinand pushed back the black hood and kissed her brow.

He thought: She is indeed mad. There can be no doubt of it. Regent of Castile until Charles is of age! There were many years of government ahead of him.

“We cannot stay here in Tortoles,” said Ferdinand. “We should travel to a place where we can live and discuss matters of state in comfort.”

She did not demur and he was delighted that she appeared ready to agree with everything he said; but he soon discovered how stubborn she could be.

“I only travel by night,” she told him.

He was astonished.

“Travel by night! But how is that possible? The journey would take four times as long.”

“That may be so, but I am in no hurry. I am shut away from the sun and the light of day. My life from now on will be lived in darkness.”

“Certainly we cannot travel by night. You must end this foolishness.”

Then he saw it, the flash of obstinacy, and he remembered that she was Isabella’s daughter. Similar conflicts came to his mind; he remembered how often his will had pulled against that of Isabella, and how Isabella had invariably won because she was the Queen of Castile and he but her consort. Now here was Isabella’s daughter reminding him that she was the Queen of Castile and he but her father.

Ferdinand determined then that all Castile must know that Juana suffered from periodic insanity, that she could not be relied upon; and the only way in which Castile could be satisfactorily ruled was by a Regent while the Queen spent her life in seclusion.

Let her travel by night. Let her carry the coffin of her husband about with her; let her fondle the corpse when she liked. All this would enable the people to understand that the Queen was in truth a madwoman.

So Ferdinand travelled by day, and Juana by night; and when Juana realized that they were taking the route to Burgos, that town full of the most poignant memories—for it was there that Philip had died—she refused to travel further.

She stopped at Arcos and took up her residence there. In vain did her servants protest that she had chosen the most unhealthy spot in Spain. She retorted that she did not care for the weather. The cold meant nothing to her; she no longer felt anything but sorrow.

Ferdinand made no protest. He could wait.

She was making it easy for him to convince the people that their Queen was mad, and then he would cease to fear anything she might do. With great vigor he set about putting his affairs in order.

He read the dispatches from Puebla. Puebla was growing old; he would send a new ambassador to England; he must try once more to bring about the marriage of his youngest daughter with the Prince of Wales.

Fuensalida at the King’s Court

IT WAS A BLEAK FEBRUARY DAY AND A CHILLY MIST ENVELOPED the countryside. The elegant foreigner clearly found the weather distasteful, and his retinue, being fully aware of his choleric temper and his habit of speaking his mind, whispered together that it was to be hoped the weather improved before they reached London.

The journey from the coast had taken them several days and they had come to rest for the night in an inn still some miles from the capital. Their coming had aroused a certain flutter of excitement within the hostelry, for it was known that the party must be on their way to the King’s Court, and there was speculation even among the scullions as to whether this meant a marriage for the Prince of Wales with his brother’s widow, and perhaps a bride for the King.

This was not the first party of Spaniards they had seen; but the nobleman who was clearly the most important member of the party was certainly a very touchy gentleman. He complained of this and that, and although he was too haughty to speak to them they were fully aware of his fastidiousness.

Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was however in far from an ill mood. The weather might be distasteful and he hated the discomforts of travel, but he was quite certain that he was going to complete a mission, over which that fool Puebla had been stumbling for so many years, and complete it to such satisfaction to his master that great honors would be showered upon him.

The futility, he said to himself, of allowing such a man as Puebla to handle these delicate matters! A Jew of no standing! Diplomacy should be conducted only by members of the nobility.

Don Gutierre was complacent. He himself belonged to a family which could trace its glorious ancestry back through the centuries; he was wealthy; he was not in the diplomatic service of his country for financial gain but for honors. He had recently come from the Court of Philip the Handsome, and previously he had represented Ferdinand at that of Maximilian. He was fully aware of the intrigues of traitors such as Juan Manuel and he had never swerved from the cause of Ferdinand. Now that Philip was dead and Juana recognized almost universally as mad, Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was coming into his own; his would be the rewards of fidelity and, when he had satisfactorily arranged the marriage between Ferdinand’s daughter and the Prince of Wales, Ferdinand would indeed be grateful to him.

While he mused thus a visitor arrived at the hostelry; he came riding in with a few servants and asked immediately of one of Gutierre’s servants if he might be taken to his master.

“I have ridden from London,” he said, “for the sole purpose of greeting Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida and that I might have the pleasure of returning with him to the capital.”

Gutierre, delighted when he heard that a gentleman of distinction had called to see him, although it was no more than courtesy demanded and it was certainly what he expected, ordered that the visitor should be brought to him immediately.

“I am Dr. Nicholas West, Bishop of Ely,” Gutierre was told. “I heard that you had arrived and have come to usher you into Court circles, on the express command of His Highness the King.”

“It gives me great pleasure to meet you,” answered Gutierre.

The innkeeper, a little flustered by such distinguished guests, provided a private room in which refreshment was served to the two gentlemen.

And when they had talked of the perils of sea journeys and the weather in England, they reached the real purpose of the meeting.

“The King has not enjoyed such good health during this winter as he has hitherto,” explained Dr. West. “Indeed, his physicians are in constant attendance.”