History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (3 page)

Doña Ana motioned to Maria; together with our ladies-in-waiting, we marched into the audience hall. With Catalina’s hand still clutching mine, I took in everything at once, my heart beating fast as I began to see just how magnificent the Moor’s world was.

An immense space of saffron and pearl opened before me. There were no scarred doors, no suffocating staircases or cramped passageways. Instead, carved archways welcomed me into rooms where honeycomb walls curved, and secret mosaic terraces could be glimpsed. Glazed porcelain vases held vigil under smoke-darkened hangings of every imaginable hue; quilted pillows and divans were strewn about as if their occupants had just retired. I looked down at my feet to a scarf coiled on the tiled floor. I feared to touch it, thinking it might have been dropped by one of the concubines on her doomed race to the tower.

I had dwelled in ignorance. No one had told me the heretic could create something so beautiful. I gazed up to an inverted cupola. About its perimeter, the painted faces of dead caliphs stared at me with laconic reproach. I swayed where I stood, overcome. I now understood why the concubines had chosen death. Like Boabdil, they could not bear to live without this Eden that had been their home.

The scent of musk crept past me. I heard water everywhere, a constant murmur as it flowed through rivulets carved in the marble floors, emptying into alabaster pools, set to dance in the patio fountains.

I paused. A sigh shifted through the pilasters, stirring the hair of my nape. Catalina whispered, “
Hermana,
what is it? What do you hear?”

I shook my head. I could not explain.

Who would have believed me if I said I could hear the Moor’s lament?

TWO

F
or three magical years, Granada became our haven from the grueling pace of the court. With the end of the Reconquest, my mother turned her focus to strengthening Spain and forging alliances with other sovereigns. Travel still took up the majority of her annual schedule, but she deemed it best if we had a permanent household in the summer months, far from the pestilence and heat that plagued Castile.

My sister Catalina’s betrothal to Henry VII of England’s eldest son was celebrated the year after Granada’s fall, reminding me that I too had been promised in my childhood to the Habsburg emperor’s son, Philip of Flanders. I was not unduly concerned. The only one of my sisters to actually wed was Isabella, and several betrothals were mentioned for her before she went to Portugal and returned a widow less than a year later. I knew few princesses had a say in their destiny, but I didn’t care to brood on a future that seemed distant and prone to change.

In Granada my world was full of youthful promise. After our daily lessons of history, mathematics, languages, music, and dance, my sisters and I often went to the lovely terraced patio at the edge of the gardens, where we practiced the ageless pastime of royal women: embroidery. Ours was a special task, however, for our simple cloths would be blessed and sent to adorn church altars throughout Spain as gifts from the infantas.

I loathed sewing. I had an impatient nature, and as I approached my sixteenth year I found it almost impossible to sit still for any length of time. My altar cloths were fit only for washing the church floor, riddled as they were with botched patterns and snarled threads. I usually pretended to embroider, while keeping close watch over Doña Ana, anticipating the time of my escape.

The duenna sat under the colonnade, a tome in her hands, from which she read aloud the passion of some martyred saint. It was never long before her head began to bob on her squat neck, her eyelids fluttering as she fought in vain against torpor.

When her eyes finally closed, I allowed a few more minutes to pass. Then I set aside my embroidery, slid my slippers from my feet, and inched up from my stool.

Maria and Isabella sat exchanging confidences. As I tiptoed past them, slippers in hand, Isabella hissed, “Juana, where do you think you’re going?”

I ignored her, motioning to Catalina. My little sister leapt up, her embroidery falling unheeded to the ground. With a smile, I said, “Come,
pequeñita.
I’ve something to show you.”

“Is it a surprise?” Catalina eagerly kicked off her slippers. She stopped, clapped a hand to her mouth, and glanced at Doña Ana. The duenna slumbered, oblivious. It would take an elephant’s approach to wake her now, and I choked back a sudden giggle.

Naturally, Maria thought the world would come to an end if any of us deviated from our regimen. In a scandalized whisper she said, “Juana, you’ll catch your death of cold running about barefoot. Sit down. You can’t take Catalina into the gardens without a proper escort.”

“Who says we don’t have an escort?” I retorted, and I crooked my finger. From the terrace pillars behind us, a slight shadow uncoiled and approached.

She stood expectant, her hooded liquid-black eyes gleaming and curly hair the color of a raven’s wing braided about her head. Though she wore a proper Castilian gown, the aura of cinnabar and jangling bracelets still clung to her. I smiled when I saw she too was barefoot.

Her name was Soraya. She had been found hiding in the Alhambra’s harem, and no one knew if she was a slave left behind when the concubines committed suicide or the daughter of one of the caliph’s lesser wives. She’d begged for mercy in her Arabic tongue and readily converted; no more than thirteen years old, it mattered little to her which god she venerated as long as she lived. I implored my father to let her serve me as a handmaiden and he agreed, despite my mother’s objections. She never strayed far from my side, sleeping at the foot of my bed on a cot and padding behind me like a cat by day. I spent hours teaching her Spanish and she learned quickly, but more often than not she preferred to keep her silence. She had been baptized with the ubiquitous Christian name of Maria; she never responded to it, though, and so we all came to accept the name she’d come with.

I adored her.

“That heretic slave?” My sister Isabella now hissed. “She is not a proper escort!”

I tossed my head, clasped Catalina and Soraya by the hands, and crept off into the gardens.

Stifling laughter, we stole into a rose bower that had once been the caliphs’ private retreat. Soraya knew the gardens like the palm of her hand: she had taken me here countless times on forbidden excursions and she knew where I wanted to go. Dusk had started to envelop the sky in a violet swirl. She made an urgent gesture; I dashed forward, nearly tugging Catalina off her feet. “Hurry! Soraya says we must get there before night falls.”

I yanked Catalina forth, Soraya loping ahead. My sister gasped, “Juana, slow down. I can’t run as fast as you two.” She came to a stubborn halt. “My feet hurt.” Dropping her slippers, she shoved her grass-stained feet back into them. “You tore your skirt when we went through those bushes,” she added. “It’s the third skirt you’ve ruined this week. Doña Ana will be furious.”

I glanced at the tear. I could care less about Doña Ana’s anger. We had reached the lower gardens; ahead a crumbling wall bordered the gorge’s deep chasm. In the distance loomed the Sacromonte hills, pockmarked with caves. Soraya stood by the wall. She pointed upward.

I lifted my eyes to the amethyst sky. “Look!” A lone shape flittered above us. It was followed by another, then another and another, until myriad creatures weaved a leathery lattice, crisscrossing without touching, the swift beating of their wings invisible to the eye.

A shiver went through me. I knew they wouldn’t harm us, but I couldn’t help but feel some fear, though I had come to see them several times before.

Catalina pressed close to me. “What…what are they?”

“What I wanted to show you. Those,
pequeñita,
are bats.”

“But—but bats are evil! Doña Ana says they nest in our hair.”

“Nonsense. They’re just animals.” I could not look away, transfixed by their stealth, wishing suddenly that I too could soar through the air like that, dusk on my skin.

“Watch closely. See how they pass over us without a sound? Though it will soon be dark, they never lose their way.” I glanced at Catalina. She was pale. I sighed, dropped to one knee. “I too was frightened the first time I saw them. But they ignored me as if I didn’t exist.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “You mustn’t be afraid. Bats eat fruit, not people.”

“How do you know?” she quavered.

“Because I’ve watched them before; I’ve seen them feed. Watch this.” From my gown pocket I withdrew a pomegranate. I bit hard into its tough outer skin, exposing glistening ruby seeds. Digging the seeds out, I tossed them up into the air a short distance away.

A bat swooped down to catch the falling seeds. Catalina went wide-eyed as I took her by the hand and we crept forth, staring in awe at the wondrously hideous animal, its tiny body furred like a rat’s and its leathery wings surprisingly agile. Soon, there were several more above us, so close we could feel them slice the air above our heads. They dipped close to the ground where the seeds had scattered, as if in a swoon of indecision, and I was about to throw out more seeds with my red-stained hands when I felt Catalina’s hand tighten in mine.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

“But they won’t hurt you. I promise. You mustn’t be afraid.”

“I…I’m not. I just don’t you want you to.”

I longed to lure more of the creatures. I’d been experimenting with the seeds; I hadn’t thought I could actually attract them. Yet even as I debated, the bats flew upward in a squall. Catalina and I squealed and leapt back, covering our heads. As they joined their companions in their strange aerial dance, I saw Soraya smile and I laughed.

Catalina glared. “You
were
scared! You thought they would hurt us.”

I nodded. “I was. I guess I’m not so brave, after all.”

The last drop of sunlight faded. The bats flitted to and fro, drawn to the moisture from the Alhambra’s many fountains. Usually they stayed aloft until night had fallen, then veered in a cloud to the orchards spilling over the countryside, where ripe crops beckoned.

Not tonight. Observing their erratic pattern, they seemed restless, uncertain of their destination. Had our presence agitated them?

“Maybe they’re not as indifferent to us as I’d thought,” I said aloud. Catalina looked at me. Above us, the bats scattered like leaves dispersed by a sudden wind.

Disappointed, I turned to the palace. Soraya slid next to me, tugged at my sleeve. I followed her gaze to where the streak of flaming torches carried by slaves raced toward the keep.

“La reina,”
Soraya whispered.
“La reina su madre está aquí.”

I gave Catalina an uneasy smile. “We should go back now. Mamá is here.”

The moment we returned, Doña Ana cried: “Where have you been? Her Majesty has arrived!” Grabbing Catalina by the hand and glowering at me she motioned Soraya back to our quarters and hustled us through the corridors to the Hall of Ambassadors.

Isabella and Maria were already there. Avoiding Isabella’s pointed stare, I went to stand beside Maria. She said, “Doña Ana was beside herself. Why must you aggravate her so?”

I didn’t answer, intent on the courtiers filing in from the keep, scanning their ranks for my father. My heart sank when I failed to find him. My mother had come to Granada alone.

I flinched when Archbishop Cisneros entered the hall, his Franciscan habit flaring about his skeletal bare feet in their leather sandals. He was Castile’s most powerful ecclesiastic, head of the See of Toledo and our new inquisitor general; a protégé of Torquemada’s, Cisneros, it was said, had walked all the way from Segovia to Seville in those sandals to thank God for our deliverance from the Moor.

I believed it. He had devoted himself with singular focus to the eradication of heresy from Spain, ordering all Jews and Moors to either convert or leave on pain of death. Many had chosen to flee rather than live under the threat of his spies and informants, dedicated to hunting out those
conversos
who continued to secretly practice their proscribed faith. My mother had had to put a rein on his tactics when he tried to investigate members of her household, several of whom had Jewish ancestry, but he’d still ordered the mass burning of more than a hundred heretics in a single
auto da fé,
a horrifying death for any living being, regardless of his faith. To me, he smelled of sulfur, and I was relieved when he passed without a glance, stalking into an antechamber.

Moments later, my mother emerged.

She moved through the bowing courtiers, the frontlets of her linen hood tied under her chin. She’d grown stout since the Reconquest and favored simple apparel, though today she wore her favorite sapphire jewel depicting the bundled arrows and yoke of her and my father’s emblem.

We curtsied to the floor. She said, “Rise,
hijas.
Let me see you.”

I remembered to keep my spine erect and eyes lowered.

“Isabella,” my mother remarked, “you look pale. A little less prayer might do you good.” She moved on to Catalina, who couldn’t repress a spontaneous “Mamá!” followed by a flush when the queen rebuked, “Catalina, remember your manners.”

Then, with Cisneros behind her, she stepped before me.

I felt her displeasure fall upon me like an anvil. “Juana, have you forgotten the order of precedence? As my third eldest, in the absence of your brother, you should be beside Isabella.”

I raised my eyes. “Forgive me, Mamá—I mean,
Su Majestad.
I…I was late.” As I spoke, I sought to hide my pomegranate-stained hands behind my back.

My mother’s lips pursed. “So I see. We shall speak later.” She stepped back, encompassing us with her next words. “I am pleased to be with my daughters again. You may now go to vespers and your supper. I’ll visit with each of you once I’ve attended to my affairs.”

We curtsied again and traversed the hall, the court bowing low as we passed. Before we left, I braved an anxious glance over my shoulder.

My mother had turned away.

I WAS SUMMONED
after supper. I went with Soraya, and as I waited on a stool in the antechamber to the queen’s apartments, she went to settle on a cushion in the corner with languid grace. Whenever she could, she opted for the floor instead of chairs.

I watched the trembling light cast by the oil lamps onto the intricate honeycomb ceiling, my hands plucking my skirts. Soraya had helped me squeeze into one of my stiff formal gowns, which seemed to have shrunk since I last wore it, the bodice straining across the swell of my breasts and the hem barely grazing my ankles. I’d shed my first blood in my thirteenth year and since then it was as if my body had developed a will of its own, my legs sprouting like a foal’s and a fine reddish down materializing in places Doña Ana forbade me to touch. Soraya had coiled my hair in a beaded net and I scrubbed my face until my cheeks felt raw, trying in vain to get rid of the smattering of freckles that betrayed my frequent forays outside without a coif.