History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (17 page)

“Then, I am relieved; and so will be Her Majesty. Still, it might be wise to remain attentive. We know Besançon met with French envoys but we haven’t been able to learn anything beyond that. But perhaps he’ll inform His Highness, and His Highness will, in turn, tell you?”

Doubt crept over me. Besançon had played me for a fool before; and his relationship with Philip was not something I’d succeeded in affecting. If he planned something with Louis of France, I would be the last person to hear about it.

“I don’t want to be dishonest with my husband,” I said tentatively. “He and Besançon share a long history; the archbishop is his adviser and mentor. Philip trusts him.”

“Her Majesty understands. She would not want you to do anything to cause dissension. Indeed, her primary concern is that you and His Highness reach Spain. She hopes your son, Charles, might be brought as well, so that she can see him in person.”

I gave a quick nod. “I’ll consult with Philip when he returns. I don’t see why Charles shouldn’t accompany us, though he is very young. As for this French matter…well, I shall see what I can discover, yes? That is all I can promise.”

“Thank you,
princesa.
Her Majesty urges caution in your dealings henceforth, particularly with the archbishop. She is aware of the esteem in which he is held here and does not wish for you to make an enemy of him. Once you and your husband reach Spain and are invested by the Cortes, a more appropriate adviser for His Highness will be found.”

“Yes,” I said hotly. “My husband lacks impartial counsel. He’s relied too long on Besançon.”

“And Your Highness? Do you lack counsel?”

His perceptiveness caught me off guard. In truth, I had never had counsel besides my trusted ladies. I’d not had any need of it. But princes needed councillors, and queens relied on them.

“I would appreciate some now,” I said. “I wouldn’t want anything to reflect poorly on me or Spain.”

Lopez smiled. “
Princesa,
trust in me and all will go well.”

A FEW DAYS LATER, PHILIP RETURNED TO COURT. HE CAME BOUNDING
into my rooms, a wide smile on his face, and swept me up in his arms to nuzzle my throat. “My infanta, I missed you!”

I laughed nervously as I waved my women out and went to the sideboard to pour him a goblet. As I raised the decanter, it struck me how much our marriage had come to resemble my parents’, with even this token gesture between us to initiate our reunions. I also felt a stab of guilt that I could not tell him what Lopez and I had discussed.

I gave him the goblet with a smile. “I gather the Estates went well. Did they grant you everything you requested?”

“They did. They’ve agreed to oversee the realm while we are away and approve our expenditures. We will go to Spain in grand style.” He sipped his wine, looking about the room. “You’ve redecorated.” He paused. It was as if the room took on a sudden chill. “I understand a Spanish envoy is here. You could have written to me. I’d have come sooner to welcome him.”

“Oh, it wasn’t necessary,” I said, fearing my deception showed like a brand on my face as I returned to my chair and the bassinet cloth I was sewing for Isabella. “He’s come as part of our escort to Spain. We spoke mostly of family matters.”

I smoothed the cloth. He did not say anything, looking at me with intense focus. I found myself wanting to fill the sudden silence and blurted, “And my lord Besançon? Any word of him? I assume he’s arrived by now?”

I raised my gaze, saw his hand tighten about the jeweled goblet stem. His response was abrupt. “He has. He sent word that he is indisposed from the voyage but hopes to be here in a few days’ time.” He paced to the sideboard. “So, this envoy had nothing important to say?”

“Only that my parents expect us as soon as possible, and they’d like us to bring Charles.”

He gave a tight laugh and quaffed his goblet. “I hope you told him we’ll do nothing of the sort. Charles is far too young to be subjected to prolonged travel. He and the girls will stay here.”

I looked up sharply. “You’ve already decided this? My sisters and I traveled throughout Spain in our childhoods, and none of us suffered from it.”

He had started to lift the decanter; he turned about, scowling. “This is not Spain. We’ve a long trip ahead of us, and seeing as we must go by land through France, we—”

He went still. For a moment, I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to do. Lopez’s advice that I not cause dissension flitted through my head moments before I clapped the bassinet cloth aside and stood. “Through France? You cannot be serious!”

“I am. Louis has invited us to his court to meet him, his queen, and their newborn daughter. I think we should accept.”

“And I think not. I’d rather swim to Spain than set foot in that land of devils.”

“God’s death!” He banged his goblet on the sideboard. “Would you dictate to me, wife?”

My heart leapt against my ribs. I felt myself take a step back, bumping into my chair. I was riveted by the change that came over him, his eyes like icy slits, his entire countenance darkening, twisted.

“I…I only meant, we cannot accept,” I quavered. “We are Spain’s heirs now, and France is our enemy.”

“That is precisely why we must accept.” He swerved back to the decanter, poured himself another goblet. He drank it down in a single gulp, reached for the decanter again. He never drank this much during the day. All of a sudden, my legs felt so weak I had to sit down.

He turned back around, regarding me. His voice softened. “Juana, you do not understand.”

My heart’s erratic beat slowed. Cold sweat congealed under my gown. He came toward me. He seemed himself again; I thought I must have imagined the violence I’d glimpsed in his eyes.

“No,” I said, “I don’t understand. I see no reason why we must go to France.”

“We must go because we are Spain’s future rulers and must behave accordingly. Louis extended his invitation through my Estates; he has no other motive than to seek our favor.”

“The French always have a motive,” I retorted, but for the first time I started to doubt my own words. I’d been so inculcated against France since childhood I’d never questioned it.

“Well, Louis’ only motive now is to make sure we don’t strike a pact with your parents that will set half of Europe against him. He’s terrified for his safety. Your sister Catalina has married the English heir, your other sister Maria married Portugal; now you and I are heirs to Spain, not to mention that one day I stand to inherit my father’s empire. I’ve become a threat. Louis needs my friendship, and if all goes as planned I intend to give it.”

He held up a hand, cutting off my protest. “I warn you now, I’ll not inherit your parents’ feuds. Spain, the Habsburgs, and France—this enmity must end.”

“Then let Louis first end his claim on Naples.” My previous trepidation vanished in the heat of my own anger. “I know you seek to do well, but my parents will never sanction an alliance between us and the French.”

“I do not make an alliance for Spain,” he said. “I do it for Flanders.” He paused. “Juana, we share a border with France. The same threat Aragón has faced could happen here. In order for us to leave, my Estates insist we first accept Louis’ invitation. I am compelled by my duty as archduke to heed them, just as your parents must heed their Cortes.”

“Then you go without me.” I raised my chin. “I cannot be seen there.”

He sighed. “You are my wife, the heiress of Castile. Of course, you must come. It’s no dishonor to show graciousness to a fellow sovereign whose position is weaker than yours. And we’ll only stay a week or two, at most.”

I struggled against his logic. I did not want to see the world as he did, because it conflicted with the world I’d known all my life. I felt as though I dishonored my father, Aragón, the very foundation of Spain itself. I wished I could talk to Lopez before I made my decision, but I sensed he’d tell me what I already knew: if Besançon was behind this meeting with Louis, it would behoove us to find out what he sought to gain by it. And Philip was right: our position as Spain’s heirs had eclipsed France’s might. One day, we’d unite the Habsburg Empire and Spain under our rule; we would encircle France like wolves. What did I possibly have to fear?

I took a steadying breath. “Very well,” I said. I retrieved my embroidery with a steady hand. “But I would like to be apprised of all future preparations for our trip.”

His brow furrowed. “Why? It’ll be tedious business for a woman’s ears.”

“No doubt, but we’ll be gone a long time, as you say, and I want to oversee the plans for the children. Not to mention, it’s not every day an infanta goes to France.”

He guffawed. “I see. You want to have the most lavish gowns and jewels, of course, though you don’t need them, my love. You could outshine Anne of Brittany in your shift.” He regarded me with a lingering smile. Did he honestly see my concerns as mere vanity? Or was he playing the fool, I thought, as he bent over me, his kiss rousing an unexpected lack of physical response.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he murmured. “We’ll also dine alone tonight, so we can enjoy a proper reunion.”

I raised my lips to his, perturbed by my apathy. I had never lacked for heat with him, but then, it was a dangerous game I played.

Yet as he swaggered out to change his clothes for supper, I resolved not to falter.

THE ENSUING WEEKS PUT MY RESOLVE TO THE TEST. BESANÇON
returned to court looking smug and immediately closeted himself with Philip. Lopez confirmed to me that while I’d made the right decision, I should continue to be watchful. I found the ongoing deception unnerving and reassured myself it would all probably result in a mere few days of discomfort, nothing more.

I suffered anxiety over leaving my children, especially my little Isabella, who wasn’t yet six months old. I must have interviewed a hundred nursemaids before I settled on one Isabella seemed to like; fortunately, Madame de Halewin and, to my surprise, Doña Ana, reassured me they would remain to oversee the children’s household. My old duenna insisted she was too old to cross the Pyrenees, adding with pointed emphasis she’d rather die here than be seen alive in France. I evaded her rebuke, comforted that my children would have her to watch over them, and dedicated myself to spending as much time as I could with Charles, Eleanor, and Isabella.

Finally, on a bright winter day in November 1501, as crowds gathered at the roadside to stare in wonder, we left Ghent. Philip led the cavalcade on his white destrier, resplendent in scarlet. I rode beside him on a dappled mare, in amber brocade that matched my eyes.

To Spain, to Spain, I sang inside. Soon, I would reunite with my parents, with the memories of my childhood and promise of my future. My eyes burned with tears of sudden joy. I could survive anything, even time in France, for soon Philip and I would be in the land of my birth.

And there, we would fulfill our destiny.

THIRTEEN

A
s soon as we crossed into France, my disquiet resurfaced. Louis had sent an entourage of noblemen and-women to welcome us, and I eyed the primped and powdered ladies with covert mistrust. That old feudal enmity between France and Spain could be felt in the air, like a storm about to burst. I was acutely aware of the fact that regardless of the stated intent, here I would be seen as an enemy, the daughter of the wily Fernando of Aragón, whose claim to Naples was a perpetual thorn in France’s side.

Nevertheless, I was astonished by the sheer breadth and beauty of the landscape, with its seemingly endless vales and silken forests, its radiant skies, prosperous hamlets, and luxuriant vineyards. I had never thought any realm could equal the inviolate majesty of Spain and could not resist a thrill of involuntary excitement when I caught sight of Paris in a haze of mist.

Above the labyrinthine streets, the spire of Notre Dame spiked the fading sun. Bells pealed from every church, a deafening clangor that summoned the Parisians to swarm out and welcome us, shouting and tossing bouquets of autumn flowers until the air shimmered like copper.

We were taken to the old palace of the Louvre, where we were told Louis and his queen had traveled to the Val du Loire to prepare Château de Blois for us. In their place, the princes of Bourbon acted as hosts, and while Philip toured the city with his men, I had an unexpected visit from the count Don de Cabra, my mother’s ambassador to the Tudor court, who’d heard of my stop in France and had come to see me on his way to England. I received him with some reserve, thinking he might bring my mother’s rebuke of my travels here. Instead, he told me my sister Catalina had arrived in England and related her entry into London, during which she’d shown impeccable dignity even in the face of unfamiliar surroundings and King Henry VII’s brusque entry into her rooms one night to order her to remove her veil.

“She was of course most taken aback and her duenna outraged,” the count said, “but the king insisted he must see if she was deformed in some way before he could let her marry his heir. She graciously complied. Naturally, then he was the one to be taken aback when he saw her beauty and he proceeded to introduce her to his court as though she were a prized jewel.”

I recalled my own unveiling before Besançon and thought with a pang of how bewildered Catalina must feel, alone among strangers and so far from home.

“And her betrothed, Prince Arthur?” I asked anxiously. “Did they appear to like each other?”

The count smiled. “Ah, yes. They are like two angels. Prince Arthur is very slim and shy, but he seemed enamored of Her Highness. So did his younger brother, Prince Henry, who threw off his doublet during their nuptial feast to cavort before her in his chemise and breeches like a pagan. Those English are barbarians, uncouth and loud. They’re fortunate indeed to have the infanta Catalina as their future queen. They call her Catherine of Aragón since her marriage.”

“I must write to her,” I murmured, ashamed that in the upheaval of my own life I had forgotten to mark the day of her departure. It saddened me that I would not see her on my arrival in Spain. I wrote her a long letter that very day, entrusting it to the count, who assured me he would see it safely to England. In it, I promised to be a sister to her no matter what and implored her to write to me anytime, for I knew what it was like to do our duty for our country.

The following afternoon, we left for the Loire Valley. We arrived in Blois on the eve of December 7, under an icy rain. Through the main gateway covered in friezes, I rode into the courtyard, drenched to my skin. Philip had gone ahead with his entourage; the moment I dismounted, a young woman of no more than seventeen years with sloe-black eyes and an unattractive, pursed mouth hustled up to me, accompanied by a clutch of stiff-faced companions.

She curtsied. “Madame Archduchess, I am Mademoiselle Germaine de Foix, niece to His Majesty King Louis. I have the honor of being your escort and lady of honor during your visit.”

She spoke as though nothing could have been less appealing to her. I signaled to Beatriz and Soraya, started to inform Mlle de Foix I hardly required more attendants when she seized me by my arm and literally swept me off into the redbrick château. My women hastened to follow, but before I knew it I found myself within the palace, led down stone corridors hung with enormous tapestries, the posse of French ladies hemming me in.

They might have succeeded in bypassing the hall completely had I not spied the open double doors to my left and forcibly pulled back.

The enormous room glowed under the lit tapers of huge silver candelabra suspended on chains from a rich paneled ceiling. I stepped forth. Behind me, Mlle de Foix hissed,
“Madame, c’est le chambre du roi!”

I fixed my gaze on the dais at the far end, where Philip stood with Besançon, their backs to me. Scores of men filled the hall—the musky smell of their damp capes and perfumes turning sour in the heat of the scented smoke rising from the braziers.

I lifted my chin and entered. They turned to stare.

In the silence, the wet dragging of my skirts across the tiled floor sounded loud as spurred boots. I heard outraged male gasps. Philip spun about, white-faced, revealing the king on a dais.

I paused. Despite his fearsome reputation, Louis XII cut an unprepossessing figure. In his early forties, having inherited his crown late in life, he had lank graying hair cut bluntly above his protruding ears, his narrow face overpowered by the hooked Valois nose. His shoulders lacked breadth, even though they were draped in cloth of silver, and his shanks were spindly in their black hose. Only his narrow metallic eyes betrayed the cunning that had made him my father’s avowed foe—his eyes, and his fingers, which were thin, tapering, and spidery.

I stood still. I did not curtsy. His blood was no more royal than mine. Indeed, one might argue his was rather less.

His thin lips curved. “Madame Archduchess, welcome to France.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I could feel the French courtiers staring, infuriated by my refusal to acknowledge their king’s superiority. Philip came to me. His face was stony, his hand hard where he gripped my sleeve. “What are you doing?” he said between his teeth.

I could see in his expression and the archbishop’s baleful stare that they hadn’t intended to see me here at all, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand why not. Was there some ancient custom in France that prohibited a woman from entering the king’s presence without prior leave? It wouldn’t have surprised me: France was one of the few kingdoms that still barred female succession. But I was not just any woman. I was the heiress of Castile.

“I am greeting His Majesty,” I replied clearly. I even managed a smile and a brief half-curtsy. “That is why we are here, is it not?”

Philip’s face turned bright red. Besançon looked fit to burst. Louis chuckled from his throne.
“Mon ami,”
he said to Philip, “your wife is as enchanting as I imagined. But she must be
très fatigue, oui
?” He returned his gaze to me. Though his smile did not waver, his eyes were like onyx. “No doubt she’d benefit from time alone with those of her own sex. She should proceed to her visit with my wife,
la reine,
and leave us bereft of her presence.”

I shot a look at Philip. He avoided my stare. Visit with the queen? Resentment and suspicion surged in me. What was this? Before I could find a way to counter this obvious dismissal, I heard heels clack to me. Once again, the insufferable Mlle de Foix snatched me by the arm and steered me from the hall, past my stricken women, who it seemed were to be left in their sodden cloaks here in the passageway like penitents, with my baggage piled at their feet.

“Milady, if you please, I must attend to my women.” I plucked at the viselike fingers, trying to extricate my arm without resorting to force, even as Mlle de Foix propelled me into an adjoining room. I steeled myself when I saw the walls hung with white velvet, emblazoned with the ermines of Brittany and Valois fleur-de-lis.

This time, rapacious female stares greeted me. They parted to reveal Queen Anne on an upholstered chair before a massive marble fireplace, an embroidery hoop in her hands as though this were but another afternoon to fill with pastime.

“Her Highness the archduchess of Burgundy and Flanders,” Mlle de Foix announced.

Anne of Brittany looked up. She had a silk skein raveled about her fat bejeweled neck, her face as round and pasty as the white cheese for which her duchy was famous.
“Ah, mais oui. Entré.”
She waved her hand, ensconced on her chair, her plump body squeezed into an ornate ivory damask gown inlaid with pearls.

I knew she was lame in one leg and assumed at first her infirmity prevented her from rising. But as the seconds passed and she sat there smiling, without even a semblance of effort on her part, it became clear that Anne of Brittany had no intention of rising at all, infirmity or no.

It was a deliberate insult. Descended from eleventh-century merchant stock that had clawed its way to respectability, her blood could not compare to mine. She might be twice queen, having had the good fortune to wed Louis’ predecessor before she wed Louis, but I was of an ancient royal lineage and it was on the tip of my tongue to inform her as much. I resisted the urge, thinking it wouldn’t bode well for the rest of our visit.

I gritted my teeth, started to give her the same stiff half-curtsy I’d accorded Louis. She motioned. Before I knew it, Mlle de Foix stepped to me and gripped my arm. Her fingers dug into my elbow like talons, sending a shooting pain through my shoulder and, to my horror, propelling me farther to the floor than I had intended.

The queen’s smile widened. “
Mais non, madame.
We are among friends here.”

I stood, quivering with rage, my fists clenched at my sides.

Anne of Brittany savored her victory for a few seconds. Then she motioned again. “They will see you to your apartments. We shall dine together later, yes?”

Mlle de Foix and her ladies closed in around me.

SO IT WENT FOR FOUR INTERMINABLE DAYS.

The rain turned to sleet, limiting any escape to the gardens. Trapped indoors with nothing to do, I could not even wander the palace, forced to attend the queen in her apartments and endure her four daily masses and hours of acidic appraisal, while Philip roistered with Louis and his nobles and Besançon cooked up God knew what with the French council.

By the fifth day, I was beside myself. Philip stayed away from me at night, enjoying long banquets with the men in this court where the sexes never seemed to mingle except by prior arrangement, and his absence only added to my suspicion and distress. I stormed about my lavish hated rooms, declaring I would not be further insulted, but Lopez kept advising caution, patience, though his kindly face began to look as strained as mine.

On the sixth morning of our visit, I entered Anne of Brittany’s chambers to find her surrounded by her illustrious collection of ladies; a large upholstered and gilded cradle sat prominently before her like a centerpiece.

“My daughter, Claude of France,” she informed me.

I stepped to the cradle. I’d wondered why this trophy of her womb, the only child she’d borne to survive infancy, hadn’t been touted out before now. I reasoned it was because in this matter Anne was clearly my inferior. I’d already borne three children, one of whom was a son and heir for Philip, while she’d failed thus far to give Louis the prince he needed to succeed him. If she did not, he’d be obliged to hand over France through marriage to his daughter. Claude could never rule as queen regnant, as France prohibited a female to take the throne.

Under lace coverlets, I saw a wan face and sad big eyes, a glittering cap on the still sparsely haired head. I was wickedly pleased to discover the French princess looked half of my Isabella’s weight and had none of her charms; when the little princess then screwed up her mouth in a pained grimace and let out an astonishingly loud fart, I smiled.

I turned to the queen. “Her Highness Claude sounds indisposed. You might consider adding some more fruit to her diet and less cheese.”