History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (26 page)

Soraya dipped into her pocket, brought out the set of keys. “I looked.” She met my gaze.
“Princesa,”
she repeated. “There is nothing there.”

“Impossible!” snapped Beatriz. I stood, an evil prickle creeping down my spine. “Beatriz, go fetch Madame de Halewin. Tell her to meet me in my wardrobe.” Throwing a short cloak over my gown, I marched with my hair half-dressed toward the wing where my clothes were kept, ignoring the startled servants in the corridors.

I couldn’t stop my gasp when I entered my private closet. We had left a room filled with neatly packed coffers and chests of personal belongings; what lay before me now was pure wreckage, the coffers strewn haphazardly about the chamber, their painted lids flung open, clothing crumpled on the floor beside them. I saw at once that all I had left was informal wear, my older dresses and day gowns. When I spotted one of the light linen dresses from my summers in the Alhambra, I felt hot color rise in my cheeks. I went straight to the panel in the wall and clicked the lever. Soraya had not relocked it. As I opened the hinged door onto the hollow compartment cleverly fitted into the wainscoting, I knew she had not lied.

My jewel caskets had been ransacked, as well.

Behind me, Madame de Halewin said, “Your Highness sent for me?”

I turned. Her expression was impassive, as though she beheld an organized royal closet and not the blatant evidence of thievery.

“Who has been in this room?”

To her credit, she had the presence of mind to pause. I was reminded in a flash of my first weeks in Flanders, when she so assiduously guided me into sending Doña Ana and my matrons away. I had forgiven and forgotten, kept her in my employ because of her qualities as a governess and lifelong service at court. Now I regarded her as though she were an avowed foe.

“I have no idea,” she finally said, and she clamped her lips in a thin line.

I took a step to her. “You have no idea? My personal jewelry is missing, including many gifts from His Highness. My coffers have been opened and searched, my best court gowns taken. I find it hard to believe, madame, that you do not know how this occurred.”

She started to inch back over the threshold. In a flash, Beatriz barred her way.

“You’ll not leave this room until you tell me the truth,” I informed Madame. I took pleasure in watching her always-pale face turn a sickly shade of white. “Should you persist in your silence, I will dismiss you from Eleanor’s household and from this court.”

That hit a nerve, perhaps the only one she had. She was not young. She had devoted her life to service, first as a governess to Margaret and now to my daughter. She had no family, no life other than this one. I could almost see the calculations scrabbling through her mind, the weights and counterweights to my threat, the consideration that I truly did not hold the power to see her banished without Philip’s consent, as she was, in the final say, answerable only to him.

But I was not to be trifled with, and after a long moment in which our gazes locked, she drew herself erect. “I will deny I said anything if questioned, but His Highness allowed a lady into this room.” Her voice was mechanical, as if she recited the evening menu. “His Highness told her you were in Spain and might never return, so why should your belongings go to waste? He said there were gowns and jewels aplenty, and pretty things should be displayed on pretty women. She came in with him and took what she fancied.”

Behind Madame, Beatriz went still as a pillar.

“Who is this lady?” I whispered.

“A Frenchwoman, from the court of France; she came and went with His Highness. That is all I know.” Madame raised her chin. “The princess Eleanor awaits me. Will that be all?”

I lifted a hand. She curtsied and swept past Beatriz. I saw in my lady’s stunned expression what she did not say aloud. I turned my eyes to the room, taking in the destruction, the callous disregard and utter violation of my privacy.

Then I turned and walked out.

TWENTY-ONE

I
awaited him clad in crimson, my figure displayed to perfection, down to the alabaster nudity of my hands and throat. About me, my women sewed, though Beatriz barely glanced at her embroidery hoop and Soraya looked as if she might lunge to her feet at any moment. I had my daughters with me, as well, Eleanor stiff in the window seat, while Isabella turned the gilt-edged pages of my book of hours. I would have had Charles with me too, only Utrecht had insisted my son had a slight cold and must stay in his apartments for the day.

When the distant blare of trumpets came, Madame de Halewin stood. “His Highness is here. We must go into the courtyard to greet him.”

“No.” I did not look up from my sewing. “Let him come here to greet us.”

“But Your Highness, it is customary—”

“I said no. You will sit, madame. Now.”

Madame de Halewin dropped back onto the chair.

I stabbed my needle through my embroidery hoop, my every sense attuned to the hallway beyond my door. When at last I heard his approach, I set my task aside and looked up.

The door burst open. In strode my husband, flushed from his vigorous ride. He wore no cap. His hair tumbled like spun gold to his shoulders, streaked with sunlight. I had forgotten in my fury that he had a commanding presence, though my practiced eye noted he’d grown heavier, his cheeks ruddier and coarser than I recalled. I consciously drew a breath, reminding myself that regardless of his physical attributes, he was still the man who had forsaken me in Spain. Yet when I saw the unfeigned surprise in his expression I felt a rush of mortifying desire.

How could I still lust for a man who was so unworthy of me?

I submitted to his hot kiss. “My infanta,” he breathed as if we’d been separated only a few hours. “Did you miss me?”

“As much as you missed me,” I replied, and the chill in my tone pleased me. I could feel every pair of eyes in the room watching as he went to an astoundingly blushing Eleanor and greeted her—“So pretty and tall you’ve grown, my dear”—and then to Isabella, who cooed in delight when he handed her a beribboned feather he produced as if by magic from within his doublet. “This is from a white owl my falcon took down in France. Put it in your blue velvet bonnet,
ma petite reine.
”

I found myself momentarily speechless. It was plain to me that our daughters adored him, though he’d arguably been more absent from their lives than I. But of course they would. What girl would not adore such a father? It did not make him any less a liar or adulterer.

He spun to where I sat like an effigy amid my women. When he clapped his hands, it sounded as though a storm broke overhead. “Out! I would spend time alone with my wife.”

I saw Eleanor’s annoyed glance as Madame led her and Isabella out. My Flemish ladies scampered into the antechamber, my two Spanish women following with heavy steps.

After two years of strife and separation, Philip and I were alone.

I did not shift from my chair as he went to the cabinet to pour a goblet of wine. He quaffed it. It was not until I saw him reach again for the decanter that I realized he was only feigning nonchalance. His hand trembled as he raised the goblet to his lips. When he turned with a disingenuous smile, I knew that he had every intention of pretending nothing was amiss.

I wanted to throw myself at his throat. Instead, I said, “How was your trip to France?”

His smile slipped. “Didn’t Don Manuel tell you? I went to negotiate a peace settlement.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “It’s not as easy as you might think, getting two kings to agree, but I think we made progress.” He took in my stare, turned heel to cross the room, away from me. “Blessed Christ,” I heard him mutter, “I’ve been riding all day through mud and mire. I’m in no mood for an inquisition.”

I folded my hands in my lap. “Yes, I heard about your travels, though not by you.” And then my accusation came, almost as if by its own volition: “Your mistress must have kept you busy indeed, that you couldn’t find the time to tell me of your negotiations with Louis or indeed remain here in Flanders to welcome me home.”

He went still. “Mistress? I’ve no idea what you refer to.”

“Come now, my lord.” I forced out a curt laugh. “I find it poor taste indeed that you’d let your French whore pilfer my belongings while I gave birth to our son.”

His eyes narrowed. “And I see nothing has changed. For a year and a half, you remained in that accursed land of yours. Now you return with your proud airs and your reproaches. Where is this son you gave birth to, eh? How do I know he even lives?”

I came to my feet. “He lives! I left him with my mother. He—he’s too young to travel.”

“You lying bitch,” he breathed. “You left him there so she can use him against me. She got what she wanted, what you and she schemed for. You’ve shown where your loyalty lies.”

I felt a sense of devastating loss. I needn’t do this. I could win him back to me, as I had before. I didn’t have to wreck whatever remnants of affection remained between us. We could still find happiness; we could still be who we were. It took all my effort to remember that I deluded myself, that though he might negate it, in fact everything had changed. I now fought for a greater cause than our marriage.

“My loyalty lies with the country we will inherit,” I said, “the country you seem intent on casting into ruin to suit your pride. Are you so blinded by hatred you cannot see the truth?” My voice shook, despite my attempt to control it. “Louis doesn’t care about you. He seeks only to work through you so he can destroy my father.”

“Your father,” he spat, “is nothing more than a cowardly murderer, who poisoned Besançon! If I had to strike a deal with Lucifer himself to destroy him, I would do it!”

I should have known then that I had lost him. The venomous suspicion he nursed for Spain and my parents had poisoned his mind as surely as he believed my father had poisoned Besançon. And yet I heard myself say in a voice as icily contemptuous as my mother’s, “I’ve no doubt you’d lick Louis’ boots if he ordered you. But I, my lord, will not. Spain is not Flanders.”

He threw his goblet aside. Sudden fear bolted through me. Not until that moment did I realize how vulnerable I was: a woman alone, his wife, practically his property, to do with as he pleased.

He stepped so close I felt his breath like a furnace on my brow. “If this is how you feel, then you have my leave to return to your beloved Spain and veil your mother’s deathbed, Madame Infanta. I’ll be there soon enough to claim my throne.”

My throne.

I raised my chin. “You forget I am Spain’s heir. Without me, you will claim nothing.”

His eyes turned to slits. Without warning he struck me with his open hand, hard enough to send me sprawling backward against my desk, its contents flying. I grappled for something to protect myself with as he lunged over me, his hands about my throat. “You will never rule Spain,” he hissed. “When the day comes, I
will
take the throne—I, and no other!”

I flung up my arm, my jeweled letter opener in my fist. I raked the blade down his cheek. A bloody ribbon appeared. He hit me again; as the room reeled in a sickening haze around me, he gripped my wrists, twisting as he yanked me up and around. I started to shout for help when he hurled me facedown upon the desk.

My jaw slammed against the leather blotter; I tasted blood. A strangled scream clawed at my throat as he kicked apart my legs, forcing both my wrists behind me in a vise while with his other hand he heaved up my skirts. Brocade and the stiff horsehair padding of my underskirts smothered me. He tore at my stockings. I fought him, my wrists burning in his grip. He clouted me on the side of my temple. My ears rang. I kicked back desperately, slamming my feet as hard as I could against his legs. I knew with breathless horror what he intended.

There was a sudden silence. Then I heard him rip at his codpiece. Searing pain stabbed through me as he thrust himself inside. He pounded into me, banging me against the desk, turning an act we’d indulged in so many times with joy and passion into a brutal obscenity. I went limp, my body becoming a piece of flesh I could not feel.

He spent himself, his breathing harsh in my ear. “Castile is mine, do you hear me? Mine! And when the time comes, you will hand it over to me. You will give it to me without protest. If you don’t, if you dare try to stop me, I’ll do this to you every night. You’ll carry my children one after the other until you die like a spitted cow.”

I slid to the floor. He struck me once more, then turned and stalked out, crashing open the door on my appalled women.

As they rushed in, the scream I had held in erupted from me in a primal wail.

I WAS SEQUESTERED IN MY ROOMS, MY BODY SO BRUISED AND
blackened I could barely leave my bed. At first I could not even speak, my jaw and right eye were so swollen shut. Despite my feeble protests, Beatriz insisted on summoning the court physician; he examined me with discomfited tentativeness, muttered that nothing seemed broken, and prescribed a rosemary poultice before he hurried out.

Nothing broken.

By the fifth day, I could walk without cramping and was able to eat more than the simple broths my women painstakingly prepared for me. They’d created a haven of my apartments, a cocoon of feminine solicitude where they conspired to keep the world outside at bay. They brought my little Isabella to see me after she raised a fuss that she missed her mamá, but I saw in her frightened gaze and gently uttered “Does it hurt?” that she sensed something was terribly wrong. Holding back my tears, I reassured her that Mamá was just a little sick and she must wait for me to get better so I could come to her.

When Beatriz informed me that Philip had announced he would leave tomorrow on a hunting excursion, I ordered her to see me dressed and accompany me to the gallery. I had not been out of my rooms in weeks; as I entered the gallery in my black brocade Spanish gown, the veil of my coif drawn over my face to hide my bruises, idling courtiers stopped and stared, so taken aback they forgot to offer their obeisance. I moved past them as if they didn’t exist, paused at the diamond-paned bay window overlooking the inner palace courtyard.

A light rain fell like satin, turning the brick walls a moist red and exalting the loud colors of the company below. No one would see me, even if they thought to glance up. In my unrelieved black I was a shadow. I saw my husband and his group of mincing favorites mount their horses. Don Manuel was with them, a toad in gaudy green velvet on a pony, his rings flashing dully on his gauntlets. Professional falconers rode behind with a cart carrying a week’s supply of foodstuffs. It seemed my husband was going to the same lodge where he’d taken me once, years before.

I saw only four women. I ignored three of them; they were obviously professional courtesans in their garish low-cut dresses and ceruse lathered on their faces.

The fourth, however, I marked. She sat on a palfrey, her wealth of fair hair coiled about her face and threaded with the distinctive blue-gray of my pearls. Even from where I stood, I saw she was pretty but not remarkably so—a French doll with her pale complexion and rubicund lips. My husband brought his horse close to her; my breath caught when he reached out to tuck her trailing cloak over her palfrey’s hindquarters, exposing her full breast in a gray velvet bodice I recognized as one of mine. His gloved hand caressed her; she arched her throat and laughed.

On her bodice, I espied a gold brooch with the arms of Castile—the very brooch I had given to Louis and Anne of Brittany in France, as a mocking gift for their daughter.

A black flame pulsed in the core of my being. I turned away, returned to my rooms.

There I waited. I did not go to the gardens or visit my children. I did not venture outside my doors. Each day seemed an eternity; each night a lifetime as I felt myself succumb to something so terrifying and insatiable I wondered that no one else could see it.

This time there would be no forgiveness.