History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (6 page)

“Ah,
madrecita,
what does it matter? If you do not wish it, it’s as good as over.”

“But it does matter. It matters to me. I want to understand.”

He rubbed his chin. “Very well. You know that while your mother and I are titular monarchs of Spain, my kingdom of Aragón has kept its independence. But in truth, we must remain united for the good of our country. We have your brother to ensure this, but it wasn’t too long ago that Aragón and Castile were avowed foes and the
grandes
conspired against the Crown and Cortes.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know. But then Mamá and you wed and made Spain strong.”

“We did, but there are some who would love to see us fail, so they can return us to the days of lawlessness. We took liberties from the nobility; we reduced their holdings, and we made them swear fealty to us before their own interests. And yet we couldn’t have succeeded without their support, and not a few of them would conspire with Lucifer himself behind our back to achieve our downfall. Plus, Aragón once lost its claim to Naples to Charles of France.”

“But you won it back. Naples is yours now, by treaty.”

“Lamentably, treaties are only as good as those who sign them. While in Aragón, I received word that my old enemy Charles is dead. He named his cousin Louis d’Orléans as his successor. Louis is a true Valois, without scruple or conscience. He despises my hold on Naples and has proclaimed he’ll fight me for it. Any war he starts over Naples will be a war with Spain.”

I flared at once. “If he declares war, then we’ll defeat him as we did the Moors!”

“Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Naples is the gateway to the African trade routes. It’s far away and Louis knows we can’t afford to wage war on two fronts without emptying our coffers and exposing Aragón to a French attack. Remember, Aragón shares a border with France and Italy. Louis can march his armies straight through my kingdom. And as soon as he’s crowned, I fear he’ll do just that. He’ll make us divide our resources and we haven’t the money or the men.”

I clenched my fists at the image of the French swarming into my father’s kingdom, as they had since time immemorial, implacable in their hunger for spoil and blood.

“It’s quite simple, really,” he went on. “Isabel and I expended our treasuries on the Moorish crusade, and both our Cortes refuse to sanction further taxes. They do have that right: they are the voice of the common people and unlike other rulers in Europe, we rule by their consent. Spain has given us all she has, and wars cost money, lots of it. Hence, the Habsburg marriages.”

I frowned. “The Habsburgs will give us money to fight the French?”

“Not money. Security. Through the marriages, we’ll be allied to them. Trust me when I say Louis will think twice about declaring against me if he thinks the Habsburgs will turn on him. The emperor is canny: he’s a friend of everyone and confident of no one. For now, he sees the advantage in Spain, but should Louis convince him to join the French cause instead, together he and the Habsburgs could bring us no end of trouble.”

I considered this. Unlike my sisters, who rarely looked beyond their apartment doors, I’d always had an ear for the goings-on at court. I’d often overheard nobles discussing the fact that while rich in land, Spain’s treasury never overflowed, its deficit increased by the demands of the Reconquest.

“What about Admiral Colón’s colonies?” I asked. “Isn’t there gold to be had there?”

“That charlatan?” He blew air out of the side of his mouth. “A New World, he calls it, when all he’s found is a parcel of mosquito-ridden isles. He may have earned himself a title for discovering land beyond the Ocean Sea, but whether there’s any gold there remains to be seen.”

I marveled at this disparity in my parents’ characters. To my mother, Cristobal Colón’s New World represented thousands of heathen souls awaiting the word of God; to my father, it was but an inordinate expense, better directed to the defense of Spain.

“Don’t tell your mother I said that,” he added with a wink, as if he’d read my thoughts. “She’d have my head. She’s convinced one day Colón will discover a city paved in gold, filled with savages clamoring for Cisneros and his pyres.”

As my laughter pealed out, I felt my cares lift from me for the first time in weeks.

“There,” he said. “That is how I like to see you. You must laugh often, my daughter. It is good for the soul.” He paused. “Do you now understand why the marriage is important?”

“I do. By marrying me to Philip, and Juan to his sister, the Habsburgs will lend us their power, and France will be forced to negotiate with us rather than simply declare war.”

“Indeed. And who better to teach that Flemish archduke the way of the world than you?”

I had to contain my desire to please him. I’d hoped for release, and instead I now faced a difficult choice. “I’ll do whatever I can to help Spain,” I ventured.

“Yes, but you don’t need to sacrifice yourself. We’ll find you a Spanish husband instead and send—whom did you suggest? Ah, yes: we’ll send your sister Maria. She’s an infanta too, and as you told your mother, it’s not as if Philip will know the difference.”

“Maria!” I rolled my eyes. “She doesn’t know the first thing about these matters. She’ll try to soothe Philip with psalms and embroidery, and end up boring him to death.”

He chuckled. “Am I to understand you could harbor a secret affection for our fair archduke?”

“Bah. He means nothing to me.” I took my father’s hand in mine. “But for Spain, Papá, I will do it. For Spain, I will marry him.”

“Madrecita,”
he murmured, and he kissed my lips. “You give me great pride this day.”

WHEN WE ENTERED THE SOLAR
, my mother glanced up from her chair. Isabella and Maria sewed nearby; at their feet, Catalina dangled yarns over the batting paws of a calico kitten.

My mother said, “There you are. Did you have a nice walk? Come join us, Juana. Your father hasn’t had a chance to bathe or change his clothes yet. Let us leave him to his squire. We’ll dine together later in my rooms as a family, yes?”

I nodded and went to a chair. Picking up my embroidery hoop, I began to thread my needle when Isabella bent to me and hissed, “Well? Are you going to marry him or not?”

“Yes, I am,” I hissed back. “And I don’t want to hear another word about it till my wedding.”

FOUR

T
he bells of Valladolid clanged in unison, echoing into the brooding sky and ringing in my betrothal day. In my apartments in the
casa real,
I plucked at my white skirts, surrounded by ladies as I waited for my escort, the stalwart and handsome Don Fadriqué, admiral of Castile, who’d fought for my mother at her accession and been one of her most devoted supporters.

“I’m going to be late,” I said, rising from my chair.

Doña Francisca de Ayala, one of my matrons of honor scheduled to travel with me to Flanders, replied, “His Excellency the admiral will be here soon enough, although if Your Highness doesn’t sit still, the gown will be hopelessly wrinkled by then.”

I curbed my retort. This wasn’t a day to wield my temper. Today I was to be formally betrothed by proxy; joined by holy vows, at least on paper, to a man I had never met.

Philip was not here. My mother had informed me that a prince never fetched his bride, particularly as the royal wife—unless a sovereign queen—must live in her husband’s country. All the same, I didn’t like it. What kind of man did not attend his own betrothal ceremony?

I didn’t dwell on it, however. I wanted to get through the ceremony without mishap. Turning from Doña Francisca, I beckoned to the young auburn-haired woman sitting on the window seat. “Beatriz, would you come loosen my stays? I feel like a trussed hen.”

With a smile, Beatriz de Talavera came to me.

I’d taken to her the moment she was appointed to my service, the only one of my new attendants I felt any affinity toward. Younger than me by a year, Beatriz had a disposition that matched her lively looks, her dark eyes framed by curling lashes, her figure lithe and graceful. Born the niece of the Marquise de Moya, my mother’s intimate head lady, Beatriz possessed all the requisite blood and skills of a royal lady-in-waiting, and a healthy wit most of these women lacked.

With nimble fingers, she loosened the stays. “Does that feel better,
mi princesa
?”

I leaned close. “It’s not as if that fat old Flemish my husband sent as his proxy will care either way. Unless one happens to be a barrel of beer, he seems most oblivious.”

Beatriz chuckled, turning me to the mirror. “Nevertheless, I vow the fat old Flemish has never seen a more beautiful bride.”

I hadn’t looked at myself yet, despite the hours others had spent primping and dressing me in my elaborate costume. Now I gazed in awe at my slim figure in its pearl-encrusted bodice, scalloped sleeves, and silver damask overskirt. About my throat I wore a large ruby given to me by my mother, one of the few jewels she hadn’t sold or pawned to finance her wars. Yards of silvery veiling drifted from my coif; within this excess, my face shone pale as bone. To denote my virginity, my hair tumbled to my shoulders, a recent wash of ash and henna coloring it sinfully red.

“Blessed saints,” I whispered. “I hardly recognize myself.”

“Neither will the Flemish. He’ll think the Virgin herself has descended from heaven.”

“Then maybe if he thinks I’m the Virgin, he’ll not make the same mistake our envoy did in Flanders during my brother’s proxy wedding.”

We giggled, recalling how the Spanish ambassador in Brussels had, during the symbolic laying of his bare leg over the archduchess Margaret, unfastened the wrong button of his hose and exposed himself to the Flemish court. The laughter helped ease my nerves, and I offered Doña Ana a smile when she bustled in moments later, plump as a partridge in her new velvets.

“His Excellency is coming down the corridor. Hurry, ladies, to your feet. Beatriz, cover the infanta’s face with her veil and join the others.”

Beatriz curtsied, though she couldn’t stop her giggle when she saw me wink.

THE CEREMONY WAS
interminable. As Archbishop Cisneros intoned High Mass, I felt myself collapsing before the altar like a cake in the sun, impaled by my finery, my headdress so heavy I marveled my spine didn’t snap under its weight. As he escorted me here, the admiral had told me I looked lovely and I preened under his gentle gaze, steadfast manner, and lean, imposing height, which had set many a woman at court to sighs. But now all I felt was miserable and tired. All I wanted to do was take off these clothes and soak in a hot bath.

Beside me, the Flemish envoy’s ale-saturated breath rasped. Incense billowed from the braziers, coalescing with the candle and votive smoke and the musk of nobles, courtiers, and envoys crammed into the pews. In their royal pew, my parents sat stiff as effigies.

Finally, Cisneros spoke the long-awaited vows. I choked back sudden laughter when the envoy repeated in his dreadful accent: “I, Philip of Habsburg, archduke of Burgundy and Flanders, take thee, Juana, infanta of Castile and the Indies, as my wife….”

When my turn came, I reversed the ridiculous array of titles: “I, Juana, royal infanta of Castile and the Indies, take thee, Philip, archduke of Burgundy…”

Thus, with a few meaningless words, I was formally betrothed to the archduke Philip.

WINTER ROARED IN LIKE A BEAST. ICY STORMS TURNED THE SKIES
black and coated the roads with frost, even as my mother traveled from one end of Castile to the other, dragging us with her.

She did not rest for a moment, nor did she allow me to. New duties were added to my already mind-numbing schedule, along with fittings for my trousseau and evening lectures on all the diplomatic issues I was expected to influence at Philip’s court, the foremost of which was to never let him sign treaties with, negotiate with, or otherwise show any favor to France. Exactly how I was supposed to do this, my mother didn’t explain, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. Though I had resolved to do my duty, I still took to pummeling my pillows at night, loathing this marriage that seemed nothing more than a political stratagem.

Soon after the Feast of the Magi on January 6, word came that my maternal grandmother, the dowager queen, had fallen gravely ill. Defying the hellish weather, my mother rode straight to Avila in central Castile, accompanied by the Marquise de Moya and, to my surprise, by me.

I hadn’t seen my grandmother since my early childhood; none of my siblings had. She had been twenty-three years old when her husband, my mother’s father, King Juan, died, and had been obliged to retire from court, as befitted a widow. In the ensuing years, she succumbed to a grief-induced illness of the mind, eventually becoming so debilitated she could not travel or abide the presence of strangers. For forty-two years, she had dwelled in Arévalo; to me, it was as if she had died long ago. I did not understand my mother’s explanation that as I would soon leave for Flanders, I had to bid my grandmother farewell. Surely if she was too ill to leave Arévalo she’d hardly remember a granddaughter she’d met once during a familial visit years ago. I certainly didn’t recall much of her. I had only an obscure memory of distant eyes staring at me, and a spectral hand that reached out, ever so briefly, to caress my hair.

Peering through the snow-flecked wind, I caught sight of Arévalo like a lone bulwark on the plain, stark as the land surrounding it. The castle custodian and his portly wife hurried out to welcome us and hustle us into the
sala.
My mother went straight to consult with the physicians she’d sent ahead. Left alone, I accepted a goblet of warm cider and moved through the hall.

Woven rugs covered the plank floor, the furnishings of sturdy yew and oak. Wrought-iron candelabra illumined faded tapestries, their once-vibrant wools drained from years of light and dust. Though hardly luxurious by court standards, the castle seemed comfortable enough for one old woman and a handful of servants.

“I remember this hall well,” the marquise said from behind me. “Her Majesty and I used to play here when we were girls, pretending we were captive damsels waiting to be rescued.”

I’d forgotten that in their childhood, my mother and the marquise had lived in Arévalo with my grandmother. I could no more imagine my mother as a girl than I could the staid marquise, and I murmured, “It must have been lonely,” for lack of anything else to say.

“Oh, it was,” she replied. “Fortunately, Her Majesty and I had each other. We made up games, sewed together, and went riding. It was lovely in the summer, especially in fair weather, but the winter—brr! It was miserable, just like today. You could see your own breath.”

A fire burned in the hearth, and braziers were scattered throughout the hall. Wrapped in my fleece-lined cloak, I didn’t feel any chill, and yet a shiver went through me. I could imagine the night wind seeping through every window and wall crevice, whistling down the corridors like a phantom. What had my grandmother done during those long, bitter nights? Had she roamed the twisting passages with the wind, plagued by the penury and helplessness of a widowed queen? Or had she floated alone, forgotten, already caught up in her own inner labyrinth?

As if she could read my thoughts, the marquise said softly, “You mustn’t fear. Her Grace the dowager is old and ill. She will do you no harm.”

I frowned. “I do not fear—” I stopped when I saw my mother motion from the staircase.

“Your grandmother is upstairs,” said the marquise. “You will meet with her there.”

THE CHAMBER WAS DARK
. Pausing on the threshold, I waited for my eyes to adjust while my mother strode in without pause, striking flint and lighting candles. A web of light flickered and spread. “Juana,” she said, “come in and shut that door. I can feel a draft.”

Steeling myself against an inexplicable thrill of fear, I stepped into the room.

In the interplay of shadow and light, I saw an old loom in the corner, a table and chairs, and a dilapidated throne. I’d expected a sickroom cluttered with medicine and the stench of illness, and I turned in relief to where my mother stood by the bed.

The moment lengthened. She stood in absolute silence, looking down at an almost indistinguishable figure under a mound of covers. Then I heard her say, “Mamá?”

It was a voice unlike any I’d heard from her before, little more than a sigh and laden with a profound sadness. Then she looked up at me, and with her hand beckoned me forward.

I moved to the bedside. I went still.

Only my grandmother’s head and upper torso were visible, propped on pillows. Strands of colorless hair fell to a sunken chest without any visible breath. The bones of her face seemed etched under a waxen mold; her bruised eyelids closed. She looked so still, so insubstantial, I thought she must be dead. I forced myself to take a step closer. Something unheard, perhaps the brush of my fingers against the tester curtain or click of heel, awoke her. Eyes the hue of a frozen sea slowly opened, riveting me with their glassy stare. Her parched mouth moved, in a barely audible whisper:
“Eres mi alma.”

You are my soul.

“No,” said my mother. “It’s Juana, Mamá. It’s your granddaughter.” She added in a low voice to me, “
Hija,
come into the light. Let her see you.”

I started around the bed, my nape crawling as my grandmother swiveled her head to me. I fought the urge to look away. I did not want to meet that probing gaze, did not want to see whatever horrors lurked there.