History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (29 page)

How had I ever found him desirable?

He paused. “You’re with child?”

“It will happen when a man forces himself on his wife,” I replied. “If I had disposed of the means, I’d have torn it from my womb with my bare hands.”

“You must be mad to say such things,” he said, with a snort.

I took hold of the armrests, hauling myself to my feet. The room reeled about me. I had been sitting so long I felt light-headed but I forced myself to laugh out loud.

“Yes, I must be mad. Mad to have ever loved you, to have thought you had a shred of honor in that treacherous Habsburg body of yours. Mad to have believed all the lies you told me, over and over again. Mad to have ever thought you could love anyone but yourself.”

I paused, gave him a smile that showed teeth. “But I am not so mad as to relinquish my crown. You can lie, betray me, keep me a prisoner for the rest of my days, but while I live you’ll never have Castile. I’ll see you dead before you ever sit on my throne.”

He didn’t move an inch; then he suddenly leaned close, looming over me. “Do you realize what you’ve done, you stupid woman? You just handed Castile to your father.” He curled his meaty fist in my face. “You will write to the Cortes. You will tell the assembly you have no intention of depriving me of my legal rights.”

I met his eyes. “I think not.”

Without turning away, he bellowed, “Ambassador!”

To my disgust, Don Manuel tripped in. I gave him a withering look. Behind him, an obviously nervous secretary hastily set a parchment on my desk. Taking me by the arm, Philip brought me to it. “You will sign it or I’ll have Lopez served to my hounds. In pieces.”

“You’d not dare,” I scoffed. I ran my eyes over the tight lines of writing on the parchment, official lines, no doubt promulgating my ruin. Fear knifed through me.

Philip said to Don Manuel, “Tell her.”

The ambassador stepped forth. “Your Highness, Don Lopez is in prison. He is accused of espionage and treason. He’s also become grievously ill since his…questioning. I fear if he does not receive medical attention soon, he may die.”

I ignored him, lifting my stare to Philip. “What have you done?”

“Only what that miserable spy deserved. Let’s see: First, he was put on the rack and stretched until his bones snapped. But he was too strong. Or is it stubborn? I never can tell with you people. Then he was introduced to an ingenious instrument called the Boot, developed by your own Holy Inquisition, I might add. That loosened his tongue well enough.”

“You—you tortured him? But he is my servant!”

“Your women are next,” Philip added. “Your beloved Beatriz and Soraya.” He sighed. “A pity it would be. As it is, they won’t last long. Their cell can barely contain them and the rats.”

I wished I weren’t with child. I wished I were a man and could run him through with a sword. Because in that instant, I knew he would not hesitate to torture and kill a thousand women if he had to. His hunger for my crown, for power, had swept all other considerations aside.

Nothing mattered, not if it got in the way of his ambition. I was not the one who was mad here. He was. Mad with power and his own overwhelming self-importance.

I looked at the paper, willing my eyes to focus. I felt bathed in ice. It was addressed to the Cortes. I skipped the usual salutation, seeking the meat. When I found it, it took my breath away.

I looked up at Don Manuel. “Your work, I presume?”

“Just sign it,” growled my husband. “We’ve no time for questions.”

“Indeed?” I savored the moment, turning from his smoldering gaze and returning to my chair. “It seems that I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world. You sent a letter before to my mother and the Cortes, claiming I was mad. Now you want me to say I am not. You’d best make up your minds, for in the meantime my father rules as regent in my name until I say otherwise.”

Rage suffused Philip’s face. Don Manuel wagged his hand at me. “Your Highness makes a grave mistake. Your father held his title in Castile through your mother, who is now deceased. He therefore has no further right to it, and not even the Cortes can prevail over popular sentiment. Fernando of Aragón was never liked. He’ll not rule in your name much longer.”

“What do you know of my father?” I retorted. “You’re not fit to clean his boots! He’ll crush you under his heel like the miserable toad you are and I’ll applaud him when he does.”

I caught the flicker of fear in his protruding eyes, contradicting his next words: “Your Highness, most
grandes
of importance have either sent a missive or representative swearing allegiance to His Highness. If you hope to ever assume your throne, you should think first before you refuse us this simple request.”

I met his eyes. My fists clenched in my lap. Double-talk: the art of the ambassador. Two could play this game. “Very well. But in return, I too have a few requests.”

“You are in no position to barter!” Philip slammed his hand on the table.

I gave him a frigid smile. “I am the queen of Castile. Without my signature on that letter, you cannot order a single mule in Spain.”

Don Manuel murmured, “It is true, Your Highness. We are running out of time.”

Philip glared at me. “What do you want?”

“My women. You will also free Lopez and send him back to Spain. And no guards; I am to bear your child. I’ll not be a prisoner. If you do these things, I will sign your letter.”

The light leached from his eyes. Had we been alone, he wouldn’t have hesitated to beat me into submission. But we weren’t alone. He’d brought Don Manuel and his by now agitated secretary to bear witness to my “voluntary” signing. He would not want it bantered about that he had coerced me by force.

“Fine,” he snarled. “Now sign.”

I stood. “Don Manuel, you heard my husband. I pray you remind him of his promises.” I went to the desk, inked a quill, and scrawled my signature.

Philip stalked out, Don Manuel and the secretary scurrying behind. Only then did I grasp at the desk’s edge. I felt my knees give way. For the first time, I felt the child in my womb quicken with a sharp kick. I took it as a sign.

I had won a victory, bought at a terrible price, yes, but a victory nevertheless.

And thus, step by step, would I win the war.

THE DAYS THREADED WITHOUT END. THE GUARDS WERE REMOVED
; once again the palace was open to me. But I did not leave my chambers, knowing that the moment my letter reached Spain it would prompt those few who might have remained loyal to my father to declare for Philip. He promised riches, titles. I had said I would make him king. Only the very brave or foolish would continue to support my father now. I prayed Papá could still convince the Cortes that my letter must have been obtained by force, for I’d never willingly deprive him of the defense of my kingdom.

On September 15, 1505, I took to my bed and bore my fifth child, a daughter Philip ordered christened Mary in honor of his late mother. Immediately after the birth he departed again, leaving me under Don Manuel’s guard and the care of my few loyal women.

My new babe was healthy, with the Habsburg skin and a shock of wiry red hair. But I did not enjoy her for long. Soon after the birth I fell ill for the first time with that often-lethal ailment of new mothers—milk fever. The doctors expressed immediate consternation and advised Don Manuel to lift any restrictions imposed on me. Don Manuel agreed, though not before he first sent Mary and her wet nurse off to Savoy, to join my other children with their tante Margaret.

From my sickbed, I summoned preternatural strength to pen another letter to Margaret, which Beatriz entrusted to the wet nurse. In it, I implored her to remember my children were innocents and mustn’t be used. I entrusted them to her care until I could be reunited with them.

The fever came close to killing me. As soon as my letter was sent, I succumbed to a fiery hell. Later, Beatriz told me of her and Soraya’s constant vigil at my side, watching helplessly as I thrashed for days, delirious and inchoate. Not until late October did I recover sufficiently to leave my bed; not until November did I have enough strength to venture into the gardens to partake of the fresh wintry air.

Only one thing gave me satisfaction: his anxious inquiries and daily visits proved that the mere thought of my demise provoked heart-stopping terror in Don Manuel. My death would be a disaster for him and Philip. Without me, they had nothing. By law, my father could set my son on the throne and rule in his name as regent. The dream of a Habsburg Spain, which had torn apart our lives, would be over before it had even begun.

I had no intention of dying. The doctors might pronounce my survival miraculous, but I knew my time had not come. With my fur-lined cowl over my head and my hands in a muff, I sat in the garden for hours, watching darkness overcome the leaden sky, my shadow freezing on the hard ground. Snow fluttered in the air. I hoped it would bury Flanders in a glacial tomb.

It was here that Don Manuel came to me. Beatriz stood, a flush to her cheeks. She hated him even more than I did. I motioned her to step aside and regarded him coolly as he bowed low, almost upsetting the huge beaver skin hat on his head. He was all deference, indicating something of import had taken place. “Your Highness, I bring good news. Our letter reached Castile and the summons from the Cortes has come. We’ll depart for Spain as soon as arrangements are made.”

I absorbed this news without a word. He bowed again, hand on the hat, then pulled his thick cape about his little person and hurried away.

I looked at Beatriz. Around us the snow gathered strength, blurring the outlines of the shrouded fruit trees and topiary cut in the shape of rampant beasts.

For the first time in our years together, my devoted lady and friend did not notice my disquiet. She embraced me. “Finally,
princesa,
we are going home!”

Home.

“Yes,” I said softly. “So it begins.”

TWENTY-FOUR

I
stood before Brandenburg Bay, which churned like an enormous cauldron, lacerated by the high winds and causing our fleet of top-heavy galleons to bob in the water like gilded corks. It was the start of the winter storm season; not even the hardiest of fishermen would dare brave a trip by sea at a time like this. But winter’s fury meant nothing to my husband—not if it came between him and his ultimate ambition.

I smiled.

After dispatching my letter, Philip had had no choice but to reach accord with my father, after which he ordered a flurry of preparations to rival the intensity of the winter storms. Now he strode about like a king anointed, shouting orders left and right with Don Manuel scampering at his heels, and leaving me to mull over this unexpected turn of events. I wished I had Lopez here with me, to help me unravel the tangled skeins whereby I found myself bound for Spain.

Of course, I already knew Philip had no intention of honoring any accord he had with my father or indeed anyone else. He’d break it as soon as he could, had in fact already broken it, at least in his mind. If not, why gather his entire guard and corps of German mercenaries? Why this arsenal of crossbows, swords, and lances and this fleet of seventy-odd ships? There could be no other explanation. My husband prepared for war.

So did I. Only I didn’t need a single soldier to initiate it.

Philip strode to me. He wore topaz brocade shot with gold, his cloak lined in marten. He’d been exercising tirelessly for weeks, tilting at the joust, practicing his archery and swordplay, losing the excess weight and regaining that muscled frame that now seemed to block out everything around me.

“It is time.” He glanced peremptorily at my women. “They’ll have to travel with the others of our suite. There’s no room on the flagship.”

“Beatriz and Soraya go where I go,” I replied. “They can sleep in my cabin. I am forced to leave my children behind. Surely, you don’t expect me to make any more sacrifices?”

He stared at me. I met his eyes, ice against ice. Though I still felt the remnants of sorrow that our youthful love had degenerated into this dangerous game of wills, there was really nothing left in my heart for him. I looked on him as I might a stranger.

“Do as you will,” he said. “Only be quick about it, or I’ll leave you behind.” He strode away. I followed at a leisurely pace, boarding the rowboat that would bring us to our galleon, providing it didn’t roll over and drown us first.

Night closed in, obscuring the shore.

I did not look back. I had already decided I would never again return to Flanders.

ON THE THIRD DAY, AS WE ROUNDED THE COAST OF BRITTANY, A
bird dropped out of the sky and fell at my feet. I looked down at the panting, feathered body, about to kneel when I saw a nearby sailor genuflect fervently. “No, Your Highness, don’t touch it. It is an omen!”

I chuckled. “Nonsense. It’s a poor sparrow that’s lost its way.” I scooped up the creature as it feebly beat its wings. One wing was crooked. Wondering if it was broken, I looked about for Beatriz.

The sailor watched me with terrified eyes. “I beg Your Highness to toss it into the sea. Please, for the love of God. It will blight our voyage.”

I laughed and went to my cabin, where I set the sparrow on my berth. After dipping a goblet into the barrel of fresh water outside, I fed it droplets with my fingers, crooning as if to a child. I wrapped my shawl about it, lulled it to sleep in this makeshift nest as twilight fell and the sea’s murmur sang with the creaking of the ship and whoosh of sails.

Beatriz came to tell me that everyone on board was talking about a winged beast that had come to curse the ship. I motioned at the tiny bundle. “Here’s your winged beast: a simple, tired sparrow. Now, go fetch me a cup of hot broth. I’ll feed it until it’s strong enough to fly again.” As I spoke, I felt unexpected warmth in my chest.

Perhaps my heart wasn’t as dead as I’d thought, after all.

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, THE STORM HIT. THE SKY TO THE WEST
turned a dark crimson, awash in tattered burgundy-black clouds. A menacing darkness overcame the fleet, whipping the sea into savage heights and consuming everything in its path like a gigantic maw.

In our cabin, my women and I raced to clear the floor, stacking the table and chairs at the far corner and shoving my chests against them. I stored the bleating sparrow in a perforated coffer where I kept my pittance of jewels, nestling it safely inside.

Outside, the wind howled, flinging down icy rain. The ship began to careen as if it were on wheels, its rolling motion growing increasingly violent as the sea heaved. Huddled with my women, I listened to the crashing of mountainous waves up and over deck railings, the desperate clamor of the crew as they fought to save us from destruction.

Then came a piercing splintering sound, followed by panicked yelling. Instants later, the galleon started to keel. Soraya keened while Beatriz began whispering prayers to every saint she could think of. I, in turn, began to get a feel for the motion, which was a little like riding a wild stallion. It was an exhilarating, completely unexpected sensation. I felt alive. Alive and free.

The ship groaned upright. I gave a sudden giggle. Drowned with the husband I’d come to loathe and his foppish suite: what an epigraph it would make!

“Come,” I said to my ladies. “We shall go outside.”

“Outside?” repeated Beatriz, as though I’d declared I would throw myself from the prow.

“Yes.” Supporting myself with hands against the wall, I moved toward the door. Despite the dire situation, Beatriz was not about to forgo her responsibility. She came after me with a cloak, sickly green as she was. When I wrenched open the door, the wind leapt at us like a feral pet. Braced against the high tower railing, I gazed on pandemonium below, the Flemish nobles racing about in hysterics in their sopping finery while deckhands struggled to secure the cracked mast and keep the galleon afloat.

I spotted Don Manuel, a drenched monkey in his soaking brown velvets. Philip was at his side, his figure grotesquely misshapen. What on earth…? I peered. A burst of laughter tore from my lips. My husband wore an inflated leather sack! Even from where I stood, I could discern bold red words splashed in ink across his chest:
El rey Don Felipe.

I tossed back my head, laughing uproariously.
El rey!
The king! So in case he fell overboard and managed to float ashore, he’d not be mistaken for a common sailor. It was so ridiculous I would not have believed it had I not seen it for myself.

Beatriz cried out, “We must pray for safe passage to the nearest port!”

“That would be England,” I said. “But not to fret. I’ve never heard of a king who drowned.”

I must confess that had we sunk that day, I would have gone down a happy woman.

BATTERED AND WITH SEVERAL SHIPS LOST, WE LANDED ON THE
coast of Essex, where the local gentry made haste to accommodate us, surrendering for our use a small manor. Word was sent to King Henry VII. Two days later, I awoke to find that my husband, Don Manuel, and the majority of the Flemish suite had gone, leaving me behind with my few servants.

“Gone?” I said furiously to Philip’s sneezing chamberlain, who, like most of the Flemish, had caught a nasty ague. “Where did they go? Tell me this instant!”

The chamberlain was in no position to deny me. He had seen my bravura on board during the storm and probably believed I was indeed as mad as Philip claimed. “To court,” he muttered miserably. “Word came from His Majesty of England that he would receive them.”

“Receive us, you mean,” I retorted and I stormed back to my rooms. With the fleet dry-docked for repairs, it could be days, weeks even, before we were ready to set sail again and I was not about to sit here twiddling my thumbs while Philip and Don Manuel created God knew what mischief with the Tudor. I was the queen of Spain and my sister Catalina had lived in England for several years, having been betrothed anew to her late husband’s brother, Prince Henry. Her position here would make ignoring me quite difficult. I was eager to see my sister again after so many years, and wasn’t going to let the chance pass me by.

While my women set themselves to countering the pervasive damp by lighting braziers all around the room we shared and countering the boredom by airing any gowns they could salvage from my waterlogged coffers, I set the sparrow in a cage by the window and sat at the table to write a letter. When I was done, I handed it to Soraya, along with a few gold coins. “Find someone to deliver this to court.” I looked at Beatriz as Soraya hurried out. “Either they send an escort or I’ll go to them. It’s their choice.”

Three days later, a missive came. I expected an official invitation; instead, to my surprise, it was from my sister, just a few lines, but enough to raise the hair on my nape.

“What does she say?” Beatriz asked anxiously, Soraya looking on.

“She wants me to come to Windsor Castle in secret,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”

A SLASH OF LIGHTNING ILLUMINED THE STONE PILE OF WINDSOR
Castle, perched atop a forested hill like a massive toadstool.

The messenger who’d brought Catalina’s letter guided us on our horses into a cobblestone courtyard. After we dismounted, we were led into the castle proper, traversing several galleries before the messenger paused at a brass-studded door. Within, we found a spacious chamber furnished with oak chairs, a table, various painted coffers, and an upholstered bench before the hearth. The hearth was huge, built right into the wall, the snapping fire in its depth casting more gloom than light. I glimpsed another door in the far wainscoting, leading into what I assumed were the bedchamber and privy. A velvet curtain glittering with embroidered stars partially covered an embrasure. This was a privileged person’s suite.