History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (7 page)

Then her frail voice reached me, as if from across an abyss. “Why are you afraid?”

I lifted my gaze. The pounding in my chest dissolved.

Never had I beheld such unspeakable anguish. In my grandmother’s eyes I saw the toll of an eternal night, of a solitude that had ravaged without succor or release. Forced to suffer isolation no mortal being should endure, she now begged with her eyes for mercy, a swift end to an existence that had ceased to hold any meaning.

I dropped to my knees, fumbled under the furs. The hand I enclosed in mine felt brittle as a desiccated leaf. There were no more words. The dowager queen sighed. Her eyes closed in fitful sleep. After a long moment, I released her hand and stood. I turned to face my mother. She did not move, her face pallid, her chin lifted as if she were about to ride into battle.

“Why, Mamá?” I asked. “Why did you do this to her?”

“I did not do anything,” she replied, but I heard the quaver in her voice, a gnawing edge I suspected had eaten at her for far longer than anyone suspected. “My mother was ill,” she went on, too quickly, as if she sought to purge herself of a terrible burden. “She could no longer live in this world. I was only a child when she began having her first spells. Later, after I was queen, it became painfully clear she would never get well again. This was all I could do. This was the only place where she could be kept safe.”

“Safe?” I echoed.

Quick anger flushed her tone. “Don’t look at me like that. I assure you, no harm came to her. She had the services of her women and her custodians, a host of doctors, the entire castle to walk in, everything she could possibly want.”

“Not everything. She was a queen once.” I paused. “Wasn’t she?”

My mother’s eyes bore at me. I could almost smell her fear, her guilt. “I brought you to say goodbye, not to question. I told you, she was not harmed. Only once I’d been assured that her illness was beyond the remedy of any cure did I find myself forced to impose further restrictions. She…she could not be allowed out. She was not fit.”

I clenched my fists at my sides. “Why did you bring me here? Why now?”

Her words came at me like vengeance. “So that you can see that I too have had to make sacrifices; that sometimes even a queen must act against her heart if she is to survive. I had no choice. I did it for Spain and for our blood. Think of what might have happened if the world had found out? I couldn’t risk it. We had been through too much. My duty first was to protect Castile, above all else. Castile had to come first.”

My throat closed on itself. She had done this. Isabel the queen had imposed this seclusion on Arévalo. It was simple, terrifyingly so. Her mother, the dowager, had become a hindrance. For the good of Spain, she had to be consigned to darkness, hidden away so no one would know that madness tainted our blood. What else was she capable of, this iron-hearted queen? What would she not do, not sacrifice, to safeguard her kingdom?

I bowed my head, unable to endure the terrible secret in my mother’s eyes. “You should not have done it,” I said. “She is our family, our flesh and blood. She belonged with us.”

My mother gave a choked sound, almost a cry. “You dare judge me? You do not know, you cannot know, the responsibility I faced, the enormous duty I had to shoulder on my own.”

“Oh, but I do know, Mamá,” I said quietly. “How could I ever forget?”

And I turned and walked from the room.

FIVE

I
faced the windswept cauldron of Laredo Bay two months later. Sailors and deckhands rushed about on the galleon; the air throbbed with their cries, the rumble of coffers dragged to flatboats, and coarse voices lifted in command.

Behind me, my sisters and brother clustered together against the wind, regarding me in awe. I was the first of us to undertake such a trip, and at my mother’s gesture, I turned and went to them. To my surprise, it was Isabella, newly betrothed to the Portuguese heir, who embraced me first. “I shall never see you again in this life,
hermana,
” she whispered.

“Nonsense,” I replied, even as her words moved through me. I drew back from her to allow Maria to kiss my cheek. “Be strong, Juana,” she said, “as you always are.”

Catalina was next. I saw at once that she was losing her struggle to contain her tears. One look at her brimming eyes, at the strands of gold escaping her cowl, and I held her close. “You must be brave when your time comes to go to England. Think of me, as I will of you,
mi pequeñita.
”

Catalina clung to me until her governess, Doña Manuel, pried her away.

I curtsied before Juan. “May God keep you in good health, Your Highness.”

“Will you be kind to Margaret when you see her?” he blurted, his face wan and eyes febrile from a recent attack of fever. “Will you be a friend to her until she comes to me?”

“I’ll be like a sister to her and tell her she’s the most fortunate woman in the world to have such a handsome husband-to-be.”

“Oh, Juana, I am sad to see you go!” Juan embraced me. Against his frail body, I heard him say, “I will pray for you, my sister.”

I set a hand briefly to his cheek before I turned to my father.

It was the moment I most dreaded. I feared it would cost me my last shred of painstaking composure and I resolved not to leave him with the memory of a tearful child. Yet as I saw him standing there by my mother, his cloak whipping about him and his face under its cap shadowed by his own hidden pain, I had a sudden vision of myself as a little girl, wrapping my arms about that strong body. All of a sudden, it hurt to breathe.

“Papá,” I said. He swept me into his arms, enveloping me. “Be strong,
mi madrecita.
Be brave, as only you can be. Never let them think Spain doesn’t rule in your heart.”

“I will. I promise.” I felt a vast emptiness when he drew back from me.

My mother stepped forth. “Come, Juana. I will see you to your ship.”

AS THE SUN MELTED
in a ball of scarlet fire into the horizon, my armada lumbered out to sea, propelled by vast billowing sails. The waters transformed from murky emerald to diamond azure; foam sprayed up against the prows as the ships plunged forward.

An algid wind tugged at my cloak. I did not move from my vigil on the deck, straining to keep the receding mountains in sight, even as night crept in, trailing shadows and mist. Soon Spain sank away into nothingness.

THE TRIP TOOK THREE WEEKS LONGER THAN EXPECTED, AFTER A
gale struck and separated my fleet. Exhausted by the close quarters, the lack of fresh food, and my women’s ceaseless prayers for a safe arrival, on September 15 I gratefully set foot in Flanders.

A crowd waited to receive me, their resounding cheers scattering pigeons from rooftops. I waved as I rode through the town of Arnemuiden to a house prepared for me, where I fell into bed. I awoke the next morning to a headache, sore throat, and news that the carrack carrying my trousseau had scraped against a shoal and sunk. Everything, and everyone, aboard had been lost.

“What shall we do?” wailed Doña Ana. “All your gowns, your jewels, your slippers and headdresses: gone! You have nothing to wear for your meeting with the archduke.”

I sneezed. Beatriz gave me a handkerchief. “Surely, there’s something in my coffers,” I said.

“Like what?” said Doña Ana. “You’re not possibly thinking of one of those old wool gowns you insisted on bringing? They smell of dirt and smoke.”

“They smell of Granada,” I replied with an impatience born of too many hours on the sea with my duenna. “I also know we packed a red velvet and cloth of gold somewhere. Either should suffice. In the meantime, we’ll just have to purchase some fabric to make new gowns. We’re in Flanders, are we not? Cloth is this nation’s trade.”

“Your red velvet is inappropriate for travel, and the cloth of gold too extravagant. As for purchasing cloth, we’re not merchants to debase ourselves thus.”

By the Cross, she could be difficult! I sat up in bed. “If I need clothing, then we must pay for it.” I paused. “And where in all this is the archduke?”

Tense silence ensued. Then Doña Ana said briskly, “You mustn’t worry. His Highness the archduke has been apprised of our arrival and is—”

“Hunting,” interjected Beatriz, with a wry smile. “When we failed to arrive as scheduled, he thought our departure had been delayed and he went to hunt boar. His sister, the archduchess Margaret, sent word while you slept. We are to proceed to Lierre, where she waits to receive us.”

I stared at my lady for a moment before I pressed a hand to my lips in mirth. Here I was discussing my choice of raiment and my husband-to-be was off hunting! Not the most auspicious start to our union, I thought, even as I said, “Well, then it hardly matters what I wear, does it?”

Despite Doña Ana’s protest, I chose one of my comfortable wool gowns, though I soon deduced the people of Flanders wouldn’t have minded if I’d donned sackcloth. Lining the roads to Lierre, they cheered themselves hoarse and threw handfuls of flowers, clad in colorful costumes. Their sheer numbers astonished me, accustomed as I was to the vastness of Spain, where one could ride for days without encountering another soul.

Like its denizens, the land itself challenged my senses—a verdant monotony boasting nothing higher than a squat hill. There were no jagged mountains, no hilltops crowned by frowning stone castles or vast golden plains. Flanders looked like a garden bowl, green and inverted and soaking wet. There was water everywhere, a permanent presence sitting turgid in marshes, babbling in rivers, or flowing through canals; water dripping from the sky and water sloshing underfoot. Outside their picturesque hamlets, where it seemed even the dogs were well fed, luxuriant fields sprouted cabbages, legumes, and other vegetables, and gleaming livestock munched within grassy enclosures. Flanders teemed with abundance, a veritable heaven on earth, where it seemed no one had ever suffered war or famine or disease.

Flemish noblemen and their wives met my entourage halfway to Lierre. The women chattered nonstop, their low-cut gowns and hiked skirts revealing sturdy ankles in colored hose. By the time we rode into Lierre, Doña Ana sat rigid on her mule, her flinty expression indicating that, to her, Flanders was steeped in vice.

Built on the banks of the river Néthe, Lierre was dazzling, crowned by spires and crisscrossed with canals. Balconies were festooned with flower boxes and laundry; the cobblestone streets rang with the rattling of coins in velvet pouches as merchants went about their business. I stared in delight at street vendors peddling meat pies and sugary buns, and Beatriz laughed aloud when she spied market stalls piled high with bolts of brocade, velvet, tissues of every hue, satins, and fine-worked Brussels lace.

“It is paradise,” she exclaimed.

“It is Babylon,” snarled Doña Ana.

It is my new home, I thought, and I rode in a daze through gilded gates into the courtyard of the Habsburg palace of Berthout-Mechelen.

Philip’s sister, Margaret, waited to greet me—a tall, rangy princess whose pronounced nose and equestrian jaw set off effervescent gray-blue eyes. After kissing me on the mouth as if we’d known each other our entire lives, Margaret led me through ostentatious passages into an antechamber hung entirely in blue satin. I could see a huge bed heaped with furs in the adjoining chamber. Venetian carpets covered the floor; a fire crackled in the marble hearth. In the corner stood a wood tub lined with sheets—for my toilette, explained Margaret.

“You do want to bathe,
oui,
after such a tiresome journey?” She did not seem to recall that as my brother’s betrothed, she too would soon undertake the same voyage. Clapping her hands, she sent her women rushing at me.

I stood, stupefied, as the Flemish women stripped me of my clothing like a slave on the auction block. It took a few moments to locate my voice; when I did, my protest brought everyone to a halt. Margaret regarded me curiously as I clutched at my shift.

“I…I wish to bathe alone,” I managed to say, in halting French, as Beatriz and my ladies came to flank me. Doña Ana and my other matrons stood frozen.

Margaret shrugged. “
Eh, bon.
I’ll see to your supper.” Kissing me again as if the matter were of no particular account, she swept out, her ladies chuckling behind her.

I gave a nervous laugh, hugging my arms about my chest. “They act like barbarians!”

Beatriz nodded. “Indeed. Her Majesty would be outraged.”

“No doubt,” I said, and I eyed the tub. “But I could use a bath. Come, help me.”

To my matrons’ horrified gasps I drew my shift over my head and tossed it aside. Doña Ana cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it. That bath is not properly drawn. I can smell the perfume in the water from here. You’ll smell like a heretic odalisque.”

“Seeing as I smell more like a goat after weeks at sea, I hardly see the argument,” I replied. Beatriz helped me into the tub. I reclined in the scented water. “
This
is paradise,” I sighed, and Soraya slipped forth to massage my feet with aromatic oils she produced as if by magic from within her gown pockets.

Doña Ana glared, whirled about, and started barking orders at the other women, who were soon hauling in my surviving coffers, searching the contents for suitable garments.

My skin glowing, I was dressed in my crimson velvet with my mother’s ruby about my throat. Against the blue room, I shone like flame. Doña Ana threw a veil over my head moments before Margaret and a group of nobles tromped in. Pushing in behind them were the men of my entourage, still clad in their soiled traveling gear, their expressions hard with anger that they’d not been offered so much as a room to rest in.

I resisted the urge to pull off the veil. Castilian tradition decreed only her husband could unveil a royal bride. I thought it absurd, echoing the Moors’ habit of immuring their women, and I stood rigid as a sculpture when Margaret declared, “Such a lovely gown. And the ruby is gorgeous, my dear. May I present a few members of our court? They’re most eager to pay their respects.”

I nodded, starting slightly when the archduchess leaned to me and whispered, “All this ceremony is frightfully tedious, my dear, but they simply refuse to heed reason. We can only hope they’ll make their speeches brief so you can sup in peace.”

Not knowing what to say, I inclined my head as the archduchess introduced the nobles, as well as Margaret’s former governess and matron, Madame de Halewin, a gaunt woman in jade silk. Most of the names flew from my head the moment they were uttered; I had an overall impression of well-fed sleekness and appraising eyes before a corpulent man in crimson robes strode into the room, his fleshy face beaming.

“His Eminence the archbishop of Besançon, Lord Chancellor,” pronounced Margaret.

The Spanish company bowed in deference to the authority of the church. Besançon was the highest ecclesiastic in Flanders, his position equal to that of Cisneros in Spain. He was also the man whose postscript had displeased my mother. As I started to curtsy, he shot out a fat, ring-laden hand, detaining me.

“
Mais non,
madame. It is I who should bow to you.” He did not bow, however; his head tilted at an angle before he turned his keen stare to Margaret and issued a curt babble of Flemish.

I looked in puzzlement at the archduchess. With a reddening of her cheeks, Margaret translated, “His Eminence wishes to know why Your Highness wears a veil.”

“It is our custom,” interjected Doña Ana, before I could reply. “In Spain, a bride must remain hidden from all male eyes until she is wed by the church.”