History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (23 page)

He stepped in front of me with fluid menace. “That will not be necessary. I shall be here only a short while, and my retainers and I are accustomed to shifting for ourselves.”

“Retainers?” I said. Underneath me, the ice broke.

“Yes. There’s been some unrest. The harvest has not been good and the winter promises to be a hard one. We’ve heard rumors of an insurrection in Medina del Campo and thought it best to increase your guard here.” His smile was cold. “A precaution, nothing more. You needn’t trouble yourself. You’ve much to do and His Highness the infante to care for. You’ll hardly notice the intrusion.”

I plunged without warning into swift black water. Retainers, he had brought retainers. He was increasing my guard. I had just been to Medina del Campo a few days ago. I had seen a prosperous town, with inhabitants who swarmed the trade fair in eagerness to share their affluence. I’d seen no signs of hardship or any insurrection.

He turned to the door.

“How long?” I asked, and I couldn’t control the quiver in my voice. “How long did Her Majesty say she would be in coming to me?”

“Not long.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Your Highness must be patient. Even a sovereign queen must abide by her laws and elected representatives, which in Spain are the Cortes and the council. Sometimes she has no choice but to obey, though she wears the crown.”

A chill spread through me. He bowed his head again, opened the door and left. As I heard his footsteps fade away, I reached with a trembling hand for the back of a chair.

EIGHTEEN

C
isneros departed two days later as abruptly as he had appeared. But his company of sixty-odd retainers stayed, turning my congenial household overnight into a barracks. Cloistered in my rooms with my son’s cradle (for I feared a nefarious scheme to perhaps kidnap him away from me), my ladies and I adopted the defensiveness of women under siege.

The subsequent arrival of my mother’s secretary, Lopez, did not relieve my fears. He seemed happy to see me, as always, and while a little more bald and careworn, just as he had done when in Flanders he tried to ease my strain and answer all my questions. He reassured me my mother was well, but she’d had a difficult time with her Cortes, and there was no word yet from my husband. Though he spoke with conviction, I detected a new flicker of wariness in his tone. My mother had personally sent him to serve me, he added, and he set himself to his secretarial role, penning my letters and faithfully dispatching them by courier. I know he did because I always received the same impassive reply: Patience. I must have patience. Her Majesty would be with me as soon as she could. Until then, there was nothing to be done. Winter was upon us and I couldn’t travel now. I must wait until spring. If I was in want of anything, I need only request it. Certainly, La Mota must be provisioned for what promised to be a long, bitter season.

None of these replies were in my mother’s hand, though each carried her seal, and as the days came and went, my suspicions spiraled to a near-feverish pitch. I wasn’t under lock and key; I was free to come and go, as were my women. Yet lest there be any doubt as to where matters stood, the archbishop’s retainers guarded the barbican and main portcullis day and night. There was no way I could leave without first going through them.

Every day, I took to the ramparts. Wrapped in a mantle, I stood for hours, looking up to the darkening sky where snow-laden clouds converged and lone hawks circled with remorseless deliberation, seeking their prey in the tall grasses below, before winter finally set in.

I felt a pit opening inside me, terrible and all-consuming. I wanted to believe something else had happened, a diplomatic mishap that required my mother’s full attention. Such matters had been kept from me in the past: I’d not been told at first about the death of Catalina’s husband or of the outbreak of the war in Naples. Though it infuriated me that she still felt I must be spared the realities of this world like a child, it didn’t mean she lied to me. I told myself this over and over, because I couldn’t bear the thought that she delayed and delayed until she could delay no more.

I gripped the stone merlon before me.

Dear God, what if Philip had been right? I’d placed all my trust in my mother. I defended her, even schemed for her, rousing my own husband’s mistrust and enmity. Philip believed she and my father had murdered Besançon. What if they had? God knew, she was capable of it. When it came to defending Spain, she was capable of anything. Philip had said she would never let me rule, that she’d lured us here because she wanted to get her hands on our son Charles, a prince she could mold into a king worthy to succeed her. That we had not brought Charles had been a blow to her plans, but now I’d given her another son, another chance.

I spun away from the empty plain laid out before me, pacing to the ramparts over the barbican that looked out over the main road. I was going mad. It was not possible. She was my mother. She would never do such a thing to me. But my fear still unfurled like a map in my head, a map of lies and deceit. I was in La Mota, an impregnable fortress. What had first seemed a logical choice, a castle in central Castile, from where I might travel to several cities or ports, now felt like a trap. Did my mother want me isolated? Did she seek to stop me from returning to Philip? He had shown himself unalterable and had thrown her plans into disarray. Her Cortes might recognize him as my prince consort, but he could never stake a claim without me. He would not be king if I did not become queen. She and her procurators could pass a legislative amendment barring Philip from the succession and making Fernandito heir instead, a Spanish-born prince of the Trastámara and Habsburg bloods, reared in Castile by his grandmother. Through him, she could continue to rule even after her death. Through him, Spain would be kept safe from the depredations of France.

But first, I must be dealt with. I had to be disposed of, sacrificed for the good of the realm, like my grandmother before me.

Sometimes, even a queen must act against her heart if she is to survive.

I let out a strangled gasp. I saw it now, as clear as if it had already occurred, Cisneros and his men stealing away my child and locking me away in this citadel. My father was in Naples, fighting a war that could drag out for months. By the time he returned, it would be done. My mother would hand him the new succession, with a grandson to follow him in Aragón, not a daughter whose husband had caused him no end of trouble. He might argue, even try to defend me, but in the end she’d win. She always won. Without Castile to protect Aragón, he couldn’t survive. The Castilian nobles would rend him apart if Louis of France didn’t get to him first.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, my panic rising to smother my very breath. I almost didn’t see the figure on horseback riding hard toward the castle. When I did, I threw myself at the ramparts. Something inside me shifted. I dashed down the narrow staircase into the castle corridor. I moved with determination, past closed doors and empty galleries, making my way through the hall and out into the keep.

The retainers had gathered in groups around braziers, sharing the heat and the furtive passing of a wineskin. The rider entered through the portcullis. Visible puffs of hot breath wafted from his nostrils as he dismounted. A young man, with a satchel slung across his shoulders: our weekly courier, who conveyed our correspondence. This would be one of his final visits, if not the last. When snow began to fall, the roads would become impassable.

I had only this one chance.

Lopez and other members of my household had gone into Medina del Campo to fetch supplies. They could be gone several more hours or return any minute. Throwing back my cowl, I came before the startled youth, who was handing over his horse to a groom. When he saw me, he made a low, awkward bow. “Your Highness, I—I bring missives for Secretary Lopez.”

The retainers idling in the keep paid us no mind. It was too cold, the days too short. The monotony of their routine had lessened their vigilance and they were accustomed to seeing me about at odd hours, for I often took long walks about the castle, restless as a lioness.

I smiled at the youth. With his tousled fair hair under his cap and his wind-burned cheeks, I estimated he was no more than sixteen or seventeen, the minor son of some minor courtier, entrusted with the time-consuming, wearying task of conveying his betters’ letters.

“Lopez isn’t here at the moment,” I said. “Have you come very far?”

“From Toledo.” He gave me a shy smile.

“Then you must be tired. Come, I’ll have the kitchen prepare you some food.” I forced out a laugh. “What was your master thinking to send you out on a day like this?”

“My lord Cisneros doesn’t inquire as to my preference, Your Highness.” He grinned at me now. I espied his covert, inept glance over me. It wasn’t every day a boy like him got to see an infanta up close, and his admiration was plain.

But all I thought of at that moment was the name of his master. He served Cisneros. My letters, the reams of letters I’d sent to my mother. Had they all gone to Cisneros?

“Yes, I’ve heard my lord the archbishop can be a hard taskmaster.” I leaned to him, with a mischievous air. “Let me take your missives to Lopez’s study.” I extended my hand, wishing I had some coin to sweeten the offer.

His moment’s hesitation felt like an eternity. He looked away, his hand on the leather strap of his satchel. He murmured, “I was instructed to give them only to Secretary Lopez, Your Highness. My lord Cisneros was very clear.”

“Ah, but he didn’t think you’d meet your infanta, did he?” I heard myself say, and I marveled at the lightness in my voice, when all I felt was a roaring inside. “It’ll be our secret. Secretary Lopez won’t know who left the letters, only that they came. I’ll put them just as you give them to me on his desk.” I kept my hand outstretched. I almost moaned in relief when after another moment’s pause he reached into the satchel, bringing out a packet wrapped in oily waterproofed leather, secured with Cisneros’s seal on the cord.

I saw him off into the castle and his reward in the kitchens. Tucking the packet under my cloak, I made my way to Lopez’s study, a small room overlooking the keep. Beatriz was in my rooms with Fernandito; my other servants were about their business.

I moved to the desk. It was neat and orderly, like Lopez himself. I held the packet in my hand. Then I retrieved the dagger on the desk and ripped under the cord, breaking the seal. Papers scattered. My hands were trembling as I started to look through them.

Receipts for provisions, payment vouchers for the retainers, approved lists of supplies—there was nothing here but the commonplace day-today documents of a royal household, all embossed with the crest of the See of Toledo, indicating receipt by Cisneros’s officers.

I fumbled over them again, returned to the large open square of oiled leather, probing it with my fingers. Then I felt parchment. Sliding my nail under the secret pocket on the underside of the leather packet, I extracted a folded paper. It too was sealed. I cracked the wax, my heart beating faster as I scanned meticulous handwriting. Isolated phrases jumped at me.

Her Highness must not be told. Her Majesty cannot be disturbed.

The words swam. I had to lean against the desk to focus. More of the same: I must not be told. Something about a codicil, the utmost need for secrecy.

Then I saw a name that froze my blood:
Su Alteza Principe Felipe.

Philip.

I fixed my eyes on the letter.

Inside me, something tenuous held together until now by the sheer force of my will snapped. I felt it and was powerless to stop it. It rose in me like a molten wave. Philip
had
written. He had asked for me. I had been right. All this time, the delays: it was all part of a trap to keep me a prisoner. My mother had manipulated me as she had since I was a child. Now she had me exactly where she wanted me, alone and defenseless.

As I stood there, I saw Arévalo in my mind, the shuttered walls and forgotten loom in the corner, the hulking bed and my grandmother’s haunted gaze, begging for release. She must have felt like this on the day she finally realized the confines of Arévalo were to be her entire existence, when she finally understood who was responsible for her confinement.

Now it was my turn. I was to be my mother’s captive and this castle my cage.

Lunging from behind the desk, the letter crushed in my fist, I raced down the corridor to my apartments. As I came crashing through the door, Beatriz let out a frightened yelp, rising from her stool by the hearth, where she’d been mending a petticoat. She took one look at my face and shooed Fernandito’s nurse into the antechamber, where my son’s little nursery had been set up.

“Mi princesa,”
she said, coming toward me. “What is it? What has happened?”

I brandished the letter in the air. “This is what has happened! She lied to me, Beatriz. My own mother lied to me! She never meant to let me return to Flanders. She seeks to keep me here forever, a prisoner. This letter from Cisneros proves it!”

Beatriz regarded the paper as though it might turn into flame. “Where did you find it?”

“From the courier! I should have known. Philip warned me; he said the only thing that mattered to my mother was her kingdom. God in heaven, I should have listened to him, followed him across the mountains. I should have heeded his warning when I had the chance!”

I thrust Cisneros’s letter into my gown pocket. “How could she? How could my own mother plot against me after everything I’ve done for her? And Philip—he’s asked for me. All this time she’s kept us apart and let us believe that neither cared for the other. She has a heart of stone. No mother would do this to her child.”