History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (31 page)

Startlingly tall, with the face of a cherub and body of a god, the king’s sixteen-year-old namesake was impeccably courteous, engaging me in brief conversation before he excused himself. I noticed the swagger of his broad shoulders and long muscular legs as he walked away and the way his father scowled and averted his eyes. The king couldn’t bear to see such a magnificent counterpart to his own decay.

“He’ll make a strapping husband one day,” Henry VII chuckled, leaning so close to me I smelled his rotting teeth. It was his first allusion to the fact that he knew my sister and I had met.

I gave him a vague smile, anticipating the snare I knew he and Philip would spring.

IT CAME WITHIN THE WEEK.

Philip walked into my rooms and set before me the draft of a new treaty between him and the Tudor. It required only my signature. I read it thoroughly before I lifted my eyes. “No.”

His mouth twisted. “What do you mean, no? It’s an excellent arrangement. In exchange for these few concessions, we will have English support in Spain. What could you object to?”

I pushed the treaty aside. “Everything. First, why do we need English support in Spain? We just signed an accord with my father. Second, these concessions consist of three different marriage alliances, one between our son Charles and the king’s youngest daughter, Mary; another between your sister Margaret and the king himself; and last, but not least, one between his heir and our Eleanor.”

“Yes? And? They’re good matches, all of them.”

I wanted to spit in his face. Instead, I stared him in the eye. He drew back, unnerved by my visible contempt, which at certain moments could reduce the violence and hatred between us to the insignificance of a domestic squabble.

“You may do as you please with your sister, though I doubt Margaret will appreciate it. But when it comes to our children, I have a say in who they shall wed. And”—I raised my voice, overriding his protest—“as far as Prince Henry is concerned, lest you have forgotten, he is already betrothed to my sister.”

He flushed red, rapped his knuckles on the table. “I asked for your signature only to spare you that mulish pride of yours. With or without your consent, I
will
have this treaty.”

“Then do so. Sign your life away. In the meantime, I leave this very day for Essex and our ships.” I strode to the door, startling Don Manuel and the Flemish nobles, who skulked in the corridor with the dogs. “My lords, send word to His Grace the king of England that Her Majesty the queen of Castile wishes to bid him farewell. At once.”

I RODE BACK TO ESSEX IN A RAGING STORM, MY THOUGHTS TURBULENT
as the gusting winds.

Once again in that damp manor, I waited three weeks until Philip’s return, his attendants laden with coffers of baubles given to him by the Tudor. I would have departed for Spain long since had the ship’s crew obeyed me. As it stood, I wished I’d taken to the sea in a rowboat when Philip returned carrying that treasure trove of gifts and plate from Henry VII, and the English Order of the Garter about his neck.

“Pity you missed the ceremony,” he said. “I was the toast of the court. Archduke of Flanders, King of Castile, and Knight of the Garter.”

I refrained from comment, forced to share supper with him in the hall. When Don Manuel tried to converse with me—as Philip had the supreme bad taste of seating the ambassador at our board as if he were of equal rank—I rebuffed him. Not until I got back to my chambers did I give in to my nausea, revolted by the bland English fare and the events that had preceded it.

That night, Philip banged at my door. I’d thought he might. I had seen the drunken glitter in his eyes and anticipated the price of barring my door against him. Beatriz sat wide-eyed on her pallet with Soraya as I stood silently listening to him yell, “Open the door! Open it, you Castilian bitch!” He slammed his fists and booted feet against the door, no doubt rousing the entire manor with his belligerence.

In the end I unlocked it because in his current state he was capable of ordering his men to break it down. As my women hurried out he whirled on me with his fist raised. “Don’t you ever lock your door on me again!”

His eyes were red slits. He’d drunk more than his weight of the heavy ale the English preferred. Glancing at the large hand poised above me (for he had put on weight guzzling Henry Tudor’s victuals), I said, “If you strike me, not only will I lock my door, but you will never so much as look on me again.”

He snorted, lowered his hand. “As if you could ever stop me.”

I refrained from reminding him I just had, turning back to the bed as he fumbled at his codpiece. I knew why he was here. Get her with child again, the gnome had said. Get her with child so she’ll be more malleable in Spain.

I lay back, lifted my nightgown. I would not enter Spain bruised and battered. Better to let him have his way. “Ah, Juana,” he slurred. “You still want me, don’t you? You still want your Felipe in you.” He couldn’t get his codpiece off. He was too inebriated to untie the stays. He had to pull his sex out the side and pump it to hardness in his fist.

I wondered if despite everything, I might feel something, if a last ember of our flown passion might somehow smolder and ignite. But all I felt was greasy fingers, the unbearable heaviness of his flesh as he pushed inside. It was grotesque, a travesty. I considered whether I could induce myself to vomit on him as he bucked and heaved.

In only seconds he gasped and rolled off me. He fell asleep at once, snoring with his mouth ajar, his breath rank with ale. Slipping from bed, I went to a chair by the window.

I sat, staring into the blustery darkness.

I remained there all the night, not moving, not thinking, as his seed filled my womb.

At dawn, I opened the sparrow’s cage and released it into the gray English sky.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
here was something indescribable about coming home. As the rugged white cliffs and coves of Galicia’s northern coast reared in the distance, the green headlands crowned by the Torre de Hércules, I felt released like my sparrow from the confines of an incomprehensible existence.

Fishing boats sent from the port city of La Coruña sidled up to the galleon. I enjoyed the fishermen’s wide eyes and gaping mouths when the captain of the fleet yelled out in broken Spanish that he conveyed their Majesties the king and queen of Castile. I did not care that he cited Philip first. The astonished elation of my countrymen as they rowed furiously back to shore was more than enough to appease me.

I was in Spain. And La Coruña at the northeastern edge of my realm, with its steep fertile vales and granite towns populated by an industrious, taciturn people loyal to Castile, would be the first to welcome me.

“Miserable, isn’t it?” Philip had stepped beside me. “I had hoped to land anywhere but here.”

I did not look at him. “Yes, I know where you’d prefer to land: in Laredo, where the
grandes
you have bribed await you with their vassals. Fortunately, your fear of drowning has outweighed your determination to betray my father.”

He chuckled. “Such a spitfire you are, my infanta.” He gripped my arm. “But I suggest you exercise control over that sharp tongue, unless you want to arrive in your precious Spain wearing my bridle and reins.”

I pulled away. I hadn’t yet told him our coupling a month ago had borne fruit and had no intention of doing so until it became absolutely necessary. As before, he would seek to use it as an excuse to confine me again and I needed every moment of freedom I had.

“I must change.” I pushed past him. “I want to be seen as befits my rank.”

“Why bother? All you ever wear these days is black!” He released a cruel laugh.

I continued to my cabin. He wouldn’t have reason to laugh much longer.

THE ENTIRE CITY TURNED OUT TO RECEIVE US, THE WOMEN AND
children carrying hastily picked bouquets of early spring flowers, the men in their Sunday finest. Our arrival was completely unexpected and the town officials wrung their hands as they tried to make the best of it. They were overjoyed, of course, but they wished they’d had more time to prepare, fearing I would find their reception frugal, lacking in the grandeur I deserved.

I smiled, shook my head. I cared nothing for fanfare. Let my subjects welcome me and I was well satisfied.

Philip tapped his foot, understanding little of what I said, as he’d never bothered to fully master Spanish. He required Don Manuel to stand on a footstool and breathlessly translate into French, and the words
my subjects
made my husband glower. Throwing up his head and puffing out his chest, he interrupted my conversation with the officials (a breach of etiquette that would not endear him to anyone) and we set out on foot to the cathedral, where we were scheduled to receive the keys to the city before retiring to the Dominican monastery that had been selected for our lodgings.

As we proceeded down the flagged streets, preceded by the clerics and lord mayor, the people pressed at either side of the cordoned path went silent, staring in awe at the contrived splendor of the Flemish ranks. Philip had donned flamboyant violet and his ducal coronet. He seemed a giant, big and fair and foreign; and he’d ordered his men to likewise wear their most sumptuous cloth—a stark contrast to my black velvet gown and veiled beguine Spanish hood, my hair concealed under its curved shape.

The streets grew narrower, a labyrinth of old houses leaning like weary trees into each other, flowered balconies snuffing out the light. It was blessedly clean. Unlike Flanders, France, and England, here people did not toss the contents of their chamber pots out their windows but rather used designated heaps outside the city. The repetitive clacking of boot heels and clanking of scabbards against jeweled belts resounded. All of a sudden from some unseen balcony overhead a lone voice cried: “
Viva nuestra reina Doña Juana, hija de Isabel!
Long live our queen Juana, daughter of Isabel!”

Philip looked up furiously. Youths in the crowd lifted their voices, followed by husbands and grandfathers, daughters, widows, and mothers, until it seemed the entire city echoed the same cry: “
Viva Doña Juana! Viva nuestra reina!
Long live our queen!”

I paused in disbelief. I had already noticed how these hardened coastal folk, these strangers I’d come to rule, stared at me. I’d wondered if they disliked the severity of my dress, if they sensed the perceptible chasm between Philip and me. Had they heard of my struggles in Flanders? Were they aware of my previous visit and Philip’s subsequent desertion? Had these simple fishermen, goatherders, and tanners been told of the battle between us over my throne?

Had they heard I was mad?

I couldn’t tell by looking nor did I wish to stare. But those faces that blended into a single, questioning visage now separated into glimpses of individuals who cheered me with heartrending sincerity. I saw a flushed man with shining green eyes waving his cap; a prematurely weathered woman with a wide open smile, clutching a baby to her breast and leading a little girl by the hand; a couple with tears on their faces as they reverentially inclined their heads. I felt their inherent respect for their monarch, but more than that I felt their love, a love they had given my mother for bringing the kingdom together and providing them with years of peaceful prosperity, and it was so uncomplicated, so encompassing it replenished me.

Instinctively, I drew up my veil. The revelation of my countenance brought a cluster of widows in perpetual mourning to their knees. One of them raised a gnarled hand and said, “
Que Su Majestad disfrute de mucha vida y triunfé!
May Your Majesty live long and triumph!”

Ignoring Philip’s hissing protest, I moved to those kneeling widows, scions of Spanish culture, women who bought bread every morning in the marketplace and sat in their doorways every afternoon to gossip about the living and remember the departed. I was about to bid them to rise when a stooped figure broke through them to where I stood—an impoverished woman with a tattered shawl flapping from concave shoulders.

She peered at me with lucid black eyes.

“Get that hag away!” I heard Philip bark. He strode to me, his hand closing about my arm like a vise. I stayed the guards with a look. I smiled at the lined face. “
Sí,
señora?” I asked softly.

I thought she wanted to be touched for the scrofula or needed alms. But she did not speak to me. Turning to Philip, she intoned, “You may come as a proud prince today, young Habsburg. But you shall travel many more roads in Castile in death than you ever will in life.”

Silence fell. She turned back to me, gave me a sad, knowing smile that froze me where I stood. Then she shuffled away and was swallowed by the crowd.

I looked at Philip. He was white about the mouth. As the procession resumed its pace, he muttered, “If I ever see that witch again, I’ll order her skewered.”

At the portals of the church, we halted. The traditional ceremony would now ensue, and I steeled myself, for my next actions would either secure me popular acclaim or sever forever that still-fragile bond.

The governor of Galicia stepped forth to present the symbolic keys to the city, reciting the ancient oath that required Philip and me to swear to uphold the statutes of the Galician province. Philip nodded impatiently, as this time he was truly lost, seeing as Don Manuel was not at his side but relegated now to his appropriate place at the end of the line.

My turn came. “No,” I said, and I made sure it carried into the crowd. “I cannot swear.”

The governor started. “No,
Su Majestad
? But it is the custom. Have we displeased you in some way that you will not uphold the oath?”

“What is he saying?” Philip said through his teeth.

I ignored him. “No, you haven’t displeased nor have any of these good people. But to swear the oath is to declare myself your anointed sovereign, which I am not until the Cortes invest me as such. Therefore, any oath sworn here today would be invalid.”

Astonishment rippled through the crowd. I sensed at once it wasn’t dismay but pride. Just as I’d hoped, my refusal was interpreted as a sign of respect for the long-established traditions of Castile, a declaration that like my mother before me I would rule with dignity and honor. I had to stop myself from giving my now-flushed and enraged husband a triumphant smile, for if he hadn’t understood the words, he comprehended their intention clearly enough.

Philip hissed, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is you will stop it now!”

I turned to the mayor. “I am weary, señor. I think I will hear Mass later. Pray, take me to my lodgings.” Motioning to my women, I turned and walked away, leaving Philip standing there among his overdressed minions.

The battle had begun.