History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (30 page)

I turned to ask the messenger if my sister would meet us here. But he had vanished, closing the door and leaving Beatriz and me alone.

I unclasped my cloak. “I can’t believe we actually made it here without being noticed,” I said uneasily as I moved to the hearth. “Surely, if nothing else, Philip set someone to watch me. Maybe the letter was a ruse, to get me here without ceremony, though I can’t imagine why.”

“Neither can I—” said Beatriz, and then she let out a gasp.

I turned. And froze.

A figure stepped from behind the curtain into the light—a small woman, dressed in a gown without rustle or sheen, her coiffed head bowed. I understood Beatriz’s reaction. The woman bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother, down to the glimmer of gold hair under her hood.

As I struggled for my voice, the woman dropped into a curtsy.

“Su Majestad,”
she uttered. She lifted her face. In the muted glow of the hearth, ethereal blue eyes shone at me like a forgotten memory.

With a muffled cry, I went and embraced her, kissing my sister’s cheeks, her mouth and nose, my tears overflowing. When I finally drew back, I found myself staring straight into Catalina’s somber gaze.

“They know you are here,” she said, glancing to the door. “My messenger is one of the few trusted servants I have left. Unfortunately, we’ve little time.”

“They?” I stared. I could not reconcile this staid, stalwart woman with the pretty laughing child I had last seen in Spain.

“His Grace King Henry and your husband,” she said. “The archduke told the king you’d taken ill from the voyage, but then your letter came and no one knew what to do. I found out and discovered where you were lodged. I feared you might not come.”

“I see,” I said, though I seethed. Of course Philip had told Henry Tudor I was ill. He’d do anything he could to keep me away from this court, which meant he was up to no good.

Catalina went on, “If they ask, you must tell them you decided to come on your own. Don’t let them know I wrote to you, whatever you do. I have so few confidants these days. I wouldn’t want those who serve me to come under suspicion for relaying news not meant for my ears.”

I nodded. There were sunken circles about her eyes, thin lines at the corners of her pale mouth. She was not yet twenty-three and she looked twice her age. What had happened to her?

“Catalina,” I said, reaching for her hands, “you speak as if you were in danger. Why?”

She looked away. I brought her to the bench before the hearth. Without my needing to tell her a word, Beatriz went to stand vigil at the door.

Catalina let go of my hand; I saw in the light that her fingers were reddened, chafed by chilblains. I knew then that wherever she lived, this was not her room. Her gown too looked threadbare. It was evident she did not thrive in England. Indeed, her hands were those of a common charwoman, not the cherished future queen of the Tudor heir.

I bit back my fury. “You must tell me who has done this to you.”

“The king.” Her voice was low, hesitant. “He has forbidden me from coming to court, but I disobeyed him.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I had to. You are the only one who can help me.”

“But I don’t understand,
pequeñita.
Are you not betrothed to Prince Henry? Why would he forbid you from coming to court?”

Her smile was unrevealing. I thought with a pang that she had our mother’s smile, gracious, yet remote. She reached into her gown pocket, withdrew a paper. “Mamá wrote this to me before she died. Perhaps you should read it. It will explain my circumstances better than I can.”

For a moment, I could not move. The entire room seemed to darken at its edges, crouch in around me. I took the letter, shifted so that the firelight fell on the page.

The parchment was worn, indicating Catalina had been carrying it with her. Undated, lacking salutation and seal, my mother’s painfully familiar handwriting raced across the page without interruption, a fervent outpouring of her thoughts engraved in fading ink.

I breathed deep.

The letter crinkled in my trembling hands. I looked at Catalina. “I never received it,” I whispered. “I never received her letter.”

“It must have gotten lost. Mine took nearly two months after her death to arrive.”

“It was not lost.” I checked my sudden fury. I had to focus on Catalina now. Time enough there would be to exact revenge on that miscreant Don Manuel, who had kept my mother’s last letter from me. “Tell me why the king refuses to honor your betrothal to the prince. I must know everything if I am to help you.”

In a flat voice, she said, “You remember Prince Arthur died a fortnight after our marriage? Well, during my widowhood, King Henry’s queen, Elizabeth, brought me to live at court. She was very kind, and when my period of mourning ended she suggested Prince Henry and I be betrothed. His Grace agreed. He wrote to Mamá, and she initiated negotiations to obtain a dispensation from Rome, as Henry is my brother-in-law. I swore before witnesses that Arthur and I never consummated our marriage, and no one thought we would be denied.”

She paused. Her hands bunched in her lap, just as they had in times of frustration in the classroom, when she couldn’t master a particularly trying lesson. Like me, she did not suffer failure gladly. “Then Queen Elizabeth died in childbed. His Grace was beside himself with grief, as were we all, for she was a gracious and loving woman. Still, His Grace assured me that his council would ratify my and Henry’s betrothal, as that had been his wife’s last desire.”

A brief smile illumined Catalina’s drawn face. “I cannot tell you how happy it made me, even in my mourning for the queen. Henry and I had grown fond of one another in a way Arthur and I never did, and I began to prepare for when the marriage would take place.”

“And then what happened?” I asked, dreading her reply.

“Mamá died.” She stated it without visible emotion, though I knew she must have felt a deep pain inside. “Overnight, the king sent me to live in a dower manor by the Thames. He reduced my allowance to such an extent, I did not have money to support my household, and many of my servants deserted me. I had to pawn my plate for food. I wrote to His Grace every day to remonstrate, but he replied that he was not responsible for my predicament. If I was in such dire need, he advised I ask Papá for money. I was but a guest in England, he said, and not his ward. Then he—”

Her voice caught. “He told me the pope had sent word that my marriage to Henry would be incestuous, as I had been wed to his brother. I repeated that on my honor, I am a virgin. Arthur and I never consummated our marriage, but he refuses to believe me. Since that time, I’ve learned that Rome did issue the dispensation, and the king lied because he seeks another bride for Henry. He has left me to fend for myself. My duenna, Doña Manuel, insisted I write to you, but when I heard you had left Flanders for Spain, I decided to wait. I did write to Papá, however. He never replied.” She searched my face. “He is not ill, is he?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of.” My own voice throbbed. I wanted to tear down this castle with my bare hands. My beautiful sister, a princess of Spain in the prime of her youth, forced to endure penury and humiliation at the hands of an upstart Tudor, whose lineage was bastard-sprung. And Philip had been roistering with him for days now, while I’d been left unaware. I now understood why he had snuck away, why no summons for my presence had been issued. No one wanted Catalina and me to meet. No one wanted me to discover the outrageous neglect she had been subjected to.

I came to my feet. “Beatriz!” My lady came to us. “Tell the man outside to prepare our mounts.” I held out my hand to Catalina. “Come,
pequeñita.
We are leaving.”

My sister rose. A frown creased her brow. “Leaving? I think you’ve misunderstood. When I said I needed your help, I did not mean I wished to leave.”

I paused. “Not leave? But why on earth would you stay? You’re not beholden to anything here. You are an infanta of Spain; I am Spain’s queen. You can come home with me.”

“And do what? Live at court as your spinster sister? Take holy vows and enter a convent? Or perhaps wed the first noble who takes pity on me? I’ve been married once before and widowed. I am not a thirteen-year-old girl with a host of suitors outside my door, Juana. You know that as well as I. At my age, you had already borne your husband a child. Besides, I
am
beholden; I am betrothed to Prince Henry. Through no fault of mine, doubts have been cast on my honor. I must not concede defeat. You read Mamá’s letter. God has a plan for me. He wants me to be queen of England.”

“God may want it,” I told her, “but I can do nothing for you here. I’ve no power until I reach Spain and am invested by the Cortes. Don’t you see? I…I too am fighting for my life.”

The words were out before I could take them back. I saw her expression falter, knew at once that despite her isolation from this court, she had heard something of my plight. Then she leaned close. “There
is
something you can do. Your husband and the king negotiate a treaty. His Grace would betroth Henry to another princess, perhaps one of your own daughters. You could refuse, offer him something else in exchange for honoring my betrothal.”

Her eyes and voice were fervid as she grasped my hands. In that instant, she terrified me. She was like our mother, once her mind was made up—immovable, impermeable, a rock against which the entire world might break and not make a difference.

“His Grace is not well,” she said, with a gleam in her eyes. “He coughs up blood and tires easily. All I need is time. Henry loves me. I know he does. And once he becomes king, he will make me his queen.”

“Oh no, Catalina.” I looked down at our entwined fingers and felt a void open between us. “It is
you
who loves him, beyond reason. I can see it in your eyes. You love him with all your heart and soul, and such a love can only destroy you, as it almost destroyed me.”

I saw her flinch. I reached up, cupped her chin in my hand. “Look at me. I too have loved as you love this prince. And in the end, he has betrayed me. You must forget this Henry. Come with me now, before it is too late.”

She was silent. Then she said, “No.”

It was then we heard voices in the corridor. Catalina whirled to the bench, grabbing up her discarded letter. She fled to the door in the wainscoting. There she paused for a moment, looking at me. Our eyes met. She slipped out, as if she had never been with me at all.

I fought back a crushing wave of sorrow and rage, motioning Beatriz to the door; moments later, a group of lords strode in, accompanied by grooms carrying torches. The fiery flood of light hurt my eyes. I did not have to be told that the stooped, gaunt figure in the sable robe, standing in the center of the staring men, was Henry VII of England.

Beside him stood my husband.

I DID NOT SEE CATALINA AGAIN AND SOMEHOW MANAGED TO REFRAIN
from asking, recalling how frightened she had been that our visit would be discovered. I suspected the king knew, however, even as he expressed surprise at my arrival, though I understood I would have been sent for eventually, as the suite had been prepared for me. He held festivities in my honor, accorded me the courtesy of a fellow sovereign. I had an immediate dislike of him for what he’d done to my sister and our subsequent encounters only confirmed my impression.

Seated beside him on the royal dais, I felt his flint-gray eyes appraising me as if I were on display, his bronchial guffaw underscored by the lurid undertone of a man who has slept alone too long. The shuffling of his bony fingers reminded me of insect wings. He retched frequently, dribbling blood-flecked saliva onto his napkin. Whether his illness was mortal or not, I could not tell. If it were, he might endure for years before it killed him. Lung rot was unpredictable, and he was the kind of king who’d cling to his last gasping breath. When he introduced me to his heir, the young prince whom Catalina refused to leave, I understood why.