History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (37 page)

A rushing sound filled my ears. Philip had the French pox. He would recover, in time. He would regain his strength. He would continue to wreak havoc for years before he went completely mad; and if I didn’t appreciate the irony in this it was because I envisioned something even more horrific—a future in which I’d be disposed of and a mad king ruled Castile, rousing the
grandes
to bring chaos and ruin to the kingdom my parents had built; a future in which there would be nothing left to bequeath our sons but ashes and death.

I flashed back on a haunted room in Arévalo, heard again my mother’s voice as she faced an angry, uncomprehending fifteen-year-old girl:
I couldn’t risk it. My duty was to protect Castile, above all else. Castile had to come first.

Of all the wrongs Philip had inflicted on me, none moved my hand as this one.

“Years?” I repeated, and I was surprised I sounded as calm as I had a moment ago.

“Indeed. If my diagnosis is correct, he should soon show improvement. His Highness has been sick for, how many days now?” Santillana turned to Parra; as the doctor opened his mouth to reply, a bloodcurdling call came from the bedchamber.

“Where is everyone?”

I turned, moved in a nightmarish haze back into the room. I came to a halt. The doctors nearly collided into me from behind. Philip sat upright, looking like a resurrected cadaver.

He fixed burning eyes on me. “I’m hungry. Get me something to eat. Now.”

I HAD SOME OXTAIL BROTH
brought and spooned it into his mouth as he scowled. He muttered he would never eat anything at a banquet again. At one point, his eyes caught mine and I saw his suspicious disbelief that I’d been with him throughout his ordeal. The doctors pronounced him on the mend. Santillana hastily took his leave, refusing any payment, relieved he’d diagnosed a prolonged death and not one he need attend.

I was left with Parra and an empty house that would soon fill up again once word got out that Philip was recovering. I had very little time.

I wiped the residue of broth from his lips and took the empty bowl to the tray. “There, now,” I said. “If you like, I’ll bring more soup later. But for now, you should rest a while, yes?”

He eyed me. “Why would you care?”

I paused, the tray in my hands. “I am your wife. Is there anything else you need?” I heard myself say as if from far away, “A warm claret, perhaps, to help you sleep?”

The moment hung between us. I was shocked by my steady grip on the tray, the impassive way I met his stare, as though I were behaving in the most normal manner imaginable. If nothing else, my very ability to project the demeanor of an efficient wife at her husband’s sickbed proved how monstrously he had warped my heart.

“No? Very well. I’ll be in the next room. Please do try and get some sleep.”

I started for the door, my steps leaden, my heart capsizing in my chest. Then, just as I set the tray on the sideboard and reached for the latch to open it, I heard him grumble, “If that doctor you brought in doesn’t forbid it, I suppose a bit of wine couldn’t hurt.”

I did not glance over my shoulder as I left the room.

THE RATTLE WAS AUDIBLE NOW, HIS BREATHING SO SHALLOW IT
scarcely lifted his chest. For the past two days, he had shouted out inchoate words before slipping into a silence so profound it was like finality itself. The fever raged again. This time, nothing could vanquish it.

“Your Highness must rest,” Parra said. I could see he too was exhausted, baffled by the abrupt turn in Philip’s condition, by this new assault that churned my husband’s bowels to bloody water and raised evil pustules on his flesh, as though he festered from within.

“No.” I gave him a weary smile. “But I would welcome a glass of water.”

He bowed his head and left me.

Philip’s mouth was ajar, that awful gurgle deep in his throat reminding me of the sound stone-filled udders made when children played ball on the plaza cobblestones. I took his hand in mine. When my fingers grazed his skin, I felt the heat emanating from his pores, though the skin itself was cold, unexpectedly hard to the touch. Though he had taught me the meaning of loneliness and betrayal, I wanted him to feel he was not alone.

I would show him a compassion he had never shown me.

His forehead creased at my touch. I set the goblet I’d prepared in his hand, in which the last of the herbs melted in the warm wine. A shadow darkened his face.

“Drink,” I whispered.

I forced the lethal mixture through his broken mouth. Some of it seeped down his chin. I wiped it with my sleeve. “It’s almost over,” I said, and I took his hand once more. “Almost over.”

A few seconds later, he gasped. I felt his fingers tighten in mine, then go limp.

Everything came to a creaking halt. We were frozen in time, painted figures on a facade. The quiet pressed in around me. With the illusory weightlessness of a dream, I experienced the scarce warmth fleeing his flesh. I stared at his face. Had it not been for his stony pallor, he might have been asleep. He looked young again. Death had restored to him the lost beauty of our halcyon days: a tangle of gilded hair on his brow and his long, fair eyelashes—the envy of many women at court—resting like poised butterflies. Looking at him, I lost all sense of the past. I lost awareness of my self, of the child in me, of my heavy aching body.

And of what I had done to save my kingdom.

All I had was this moment beside my husband’s corpse and, in my mind, the words of a prophecy uttered only five months ago:
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.

THIRTY

M
y husband, the man I’d wed for politics; whom I loved for four years and hated for five; bedded countless times and wept countless tears over; borne five children and conceived a sixth; battled, plotted, and fought against: my husband was dead.

Did I mourn him? The answer is simple, and private. I had done what was required to save my realm, and his death did not turn me into a deranged, bereft widow. Our love was a ravaged memory; his corpse only confirmed it. Now I faced a choice that could free me or condemn me forever, a means of escape that could seem to prove I was indeed as mad as he had claimed.

But I had my reason, incomprehensible as it may have seemed.

SO I WAITED. IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG. A MERE HOUR AFTER PHILIP
died, the Flemish, Cisneros and his band of clerics, and the nobles descended on the Casa de Cordón like locusts. Beatriz, Doña Josefa, and I had barely finished bathing and dressing the corpse when the lords came stampeding into the room to assume charge of the situation.

I swayed on my feet with exhaustion and didn’t try to fight them. I allowed myself to be taken back to my rooms, while the Flemish wailed and Cisneros let the embalmers in, after which the body was wrapped in linen for conveyance to the monastery of Miraflores outside Burgos, where the monks would hold vigil for Philip’s immortal soul. Proclamations were posted throughout Castile announcing the untimely death of Philip of Habsburg, posthumously titled “prince consort of our heiress apparent Queen Juana”—which, I suppose, glossed over the political incertitude.

As for me, I was a twenty-seven-year-old widow and six months pregnant. Outwardly, I showed no signs of distress. I donned black out of respect but otherwise was content to take my meals with my women and remain in my rooms, pondering my next move, as I knew the
grandes
did.

Overnight, the world had changed. With Philip dead, I was most definitely their queen, but I did not delude myself that I held any more power than I had when Philip was alive. Indeed, it was barely a month after his death that my half sister, Joanna, returned to the
casa
swathed head to toe in black. She immediately set herself to infiltrating my household, despite Beatriz’s overt scowl. To my disgust, other noble wives followed—a veritable legion determined to barricade me behind a wall of feminine solicitude. I knew this was Cisneros’s doing, part of his plot to keep me estranged. He did not want me running loose while he cajoled the nobility to the negotiating table. I tolerated the invasion for the moment because faithful Lopez, whom Philip had tortured in Flanders, had also come in haste to join my household, and Soraya showed up one day without warning, haggard and thin and bearing the marks of the whips and violations Philip’s men had subjected her to, yet resolute as ever to be at my side.

As I embraced her, I wept my first tears since Philip’s death.

With Soraya back in my service and Beatriz at my side night and day, I bided my time, until one afternoon when Archbishop Cisneros and the Marquis of Villena barged into my rooms.

“It is imperative we act before the situation worsens,” Cisneros declaimed. He’d surged into startling life, with even a hint of sparse color to punctuate his hollow cheeks. “Castile has lacked guidance for too long. If Your Highness would read this list”—he set a paper on the crowded table before me—“you will see every appointment is in order and the lords cited therein most eager to serve as your councillors.”

I faced them impassively. I’d been expecting something of this nature from him. Indeed, with Philip dead, I’d assumed it would only be a matter of time before some new alliance was forged with the
grandes.
The admiral believed Cisneros was my father’s supporter and had worked secretly to undermine Philip, but I suspected I’d been right about him all along. He was no better than any noble in his lust for power. I’d made an enemy of him during my last trip, when I confronted him at La Mota. He would not be a friend to me now, not until my father showed up and put him in his proper place.

“This talk of a council is premature, my lords. I will address this, and other matters pertaining to my estate, at a more appropriate time.” I couldn’t resist a small smile. “Are we not, after all, still in mourning for my late husband?”

“The thirty days are past,” Villena said with his suave air. “This matter concerns the very future of Castile. Surely Your Highness doesn’t wish to deprive her people of proper governance at a time like this?”

“This realm has lacked for proper governance since my mother died,” I said dryly. “I hardly think a few more weeks will make any difference.”

His mouth worked. I could see he was doing his best to control his temper, to try and divine my reasons for delaying. When he next spoke, it was with a deceptive softness that chilled me to the bone. “My lord archbishop, the lords, and I believe Burgos is no longer an appropriate place for Your Highness. After having suffered such tragedy here, we humbly suggest you honor our offer of assistance and move your household to—”

I held up my hand, hiding with that peremptory gesture the stab of alarm that went through me. “You forget with whom you speak, my lord. I am your queen. I alone will decide when and where I shall move my household.”

I watched his face turn scarlet and let the seconds pass, one by one, until I felt the air curdle like sour milk. “I must be invested and crowned,” I said. “The decision of the Cortes to recognize me in Valladolid was delayed by the plague, but with my husband the archduke gone there can be no further debate as to my rightful claim. My mother willed this realm to me, and I will rule it. In the meantime, I have some requests of my own.”

Cisneros’s face darkened. “What requests, if you please?” he asked through his teeth.

“All appointments made by my late husband must be annulled. They were undertaken illegally, without my consent. The traitor Don Manuel and his
flamencos
are to be found and arrested. I understand they have fled into hiding, with a significant amount of gold plate and jewels stolen from my husband’s apartments in the castle. I command you, my lord archbishop, as head of the church, to issue my decree and you, my lord marquis, to enforce it. Anyone who dares give shelter to or hide Don Manuel faces immediate arrest and execution.”

It was my first command as queen, and Villena’s reaction was predictable, his voice throbbing with barely controlled rage. “Though loved Don Manuel is not, I am no mercenary to hunt him down. Your Highness has perhaps spent too many years watching the Flemish scrape to the French.”

I elected not to remind him that only a few weeks ago, he’d apparently scraped to Philip with quite the same lack of compunction. But his hypocrisy was expected. In fact, none of these so-called lords sought to support me. They might hold differing opinions as to who should ultimately rule in Castile, were probably at this very moment scheming against each other behind their backs, but on one thing they were unanimous: I must not be crowned. Either my son Fernando or, if worse came to worst, my son Charles. But not me, never me. They had lived too long under my mother’s whip to abide another woman on the throne. With Philip’s death, I had simply exchanged one set of enemies for another. Only this time, I had a weapon. Beatriz’s advice had served me well:
There are two kinds of women inviolate in Spain: an expectant mother and a recent widow.
I was now both. I’d hoped to forestall my plan until the admiral returned with my father but I could not wait anymore. I had no idea when they might arrive. I had to act.

I lifted my chin. “Moreover, I want word dispatched to my sister-in-law the archduchess Margaret to send my daughters to me as soon as passage is safe. My son Charles, naturally, is now archduke of Flanders and will be obliged to remain there. But I gave birth to my son Fernando here in Spain and I’ve not yet set eyes on him. He too must be brought to me from Aragón. And you may issue my summons to the Cortes to assemble in Toledo, where I shall also see my husband’s body interred in the cathedral.”

They greeted my announcement with an astounded hush. I had pondered it for days, ruminating over its outcome, wondering if it would free or ensnare me. For the moment I saw I had caught them off guard. Villena’s fists clenched. Cisneros considered me for a long moment before he said, “Does Your Highness wish to personally escort the archduke’s catafalque?”

“It is not my wish,” I replied, “but rather my duty. Or would you rather we left his remains here? It’s hardly a suitable resting place for a prince of his stature.”

Cisneros’s gaze narrowed. No doubt, he
had
intended on leaving Philip’s body here. He had let the embalmers cut it apart to send his heart and brain to Brussels in a silver casket, according to Habsburg custom. What did he care where the rest of it ended up? Under any other circumstance I too would have left him undisturbed in Miraflores, save for the fact that a queen escorting her husband’s bier afforded me a shield like no other to get out of Burgos.

“It is a rather unorthodox request,” said Cisneros. “Unprecedented, even.”

“It’s out of the question!” added Villena. “Your Highness cannot pretend to convey a corpse all the way to Toledo in the dead of winter.”

“My mother’s body was taken all the way to Granada in winter without undue hardship,” I replied, even as I realized that Villena had guessed my purpose. He knew that not only did I seek to protect myself with Philip’s coffin but the people would see me as I passed through Castile. By putting my tragedy on display, I would reap the sympathy of my subjects.

“Indeed,” added Cisneros suddenly, and I caught a furtive gleam in his eyes. “And when, pray, does Your Highness wish to undertake this journey?”

“As soon as possible,” I said, thinking quickly. “Have a cart collect the coffin and assemble the funeral cortege. You and the other lords must of course remain here to oversee my dictates. I don’t require you for this endeavor.” I paused, aiming my next words at Villena. “My lord, you and the admiral hold equal power in the Cortes, yes? Since you deem the hunting down of Spain’s foes beneath you, would you do me the honor of establishing Don Fadriqué’s whereabouts? We cannot convene in Toledo without him.”

“He will,” interjected Cisneros, before Villena could reply. “You may trust in us, Your Highness.” With a bow, he herded the marquis out like an unruly schoolchild.

As soon as they left through the front door, Beatriz came in through the back. She had listened to everything through a peephole drilled in the wainscoting. She now stood in the doorway, regarding me with troubled eyes.
“Princesa,”
she said, “what do you intend?”

“What else?” I met her stare. “Cisneros thinks I don’t have ears or eyes. He thinks I don’t know he only lets me undertake this journey so he can use it to spread more of his lies. Already, the legend Philip created for me grows. He would spread it far and wide, maybe all the way to Naples. With any luck, it will finally summon my father and the admiral to my side.”

“Legend?” said Beatriz. “What legend?”

I smiled. “Why, that I’m mad, of course. Mad with grief. Juana the Mad.”