History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (9 page)

SEVEN

T
wo days later, we were wed again in the cathedral, our union witnessed by enough nobles and prelates to satisfy even Doña Ana’s exacting standards.

Another grand feast ensued. At the height of the revelry, Philip seized me by the hand and hauled me laughing through the palace to my apartments. He locked the door and threw me onto the carpet, ripping at my clothes. From the carpet, we graduated to the bed, where he displayed me on linen sheets strewn with lavender, his hands and mouth seeming to be all over me at once. Guided by his moans and whispers, I strove to show him that I was a fast learner, finding pleasure not only in what he did to me but also in giving him what he desired.

Later in our disheveled bed, with the sheets tangled about me, I looked up at the coffered ceiling and found myself recalling the day I’d first beheld the grandeur of the Moors’ vanquished world. I had felt then as I felt now, full of exultation and belief in the miraculous.

I turned to Philip. He lay with his arm across his brow. “What is it?” he murmured. He reached out to pull me closer, his eyelids drooping as he struggled against sleep.

“I want to tell you about Spain,” I whispered.

He smiled lazily. “Then do. Tell me everything.”

And so I did, weaving in the darkened room the colors and shapes of my land. I relived the march on Granada, my mother at the head of her armies in a soldier’s breastplate, her silver cross aloft. I heard again the whoosh of catapults, my father’s defiant laughter as he strode through the ranks. I stood before the ocean, watching Colón depart in the galleons my mother had purchased with her jewels; rode in procession to Toledo to witness the return of Colón with his cages of exotic birds and natives from an unknown world. I danced in the
sala;
quarreled and made up with my sisters; followed the bats as they gathered in the sunset; and beheld the Alhambra as I’d last seen it, leonine and silent. When I finished, I hugged my knees, tears brimming in my eyes.

Philip lay so quiet beside me I thought he’d fallen asleep. I leaned to him. His eyes were open, muted. “Felipe,” I said softly in my native tongue. “What is it? You look so sad.”

He sighed. “I was thinking about my family. Or what passes for my family.” He did not look at me. “My mother died when I was a babe. My father loved her so much he could not bear her loss or, apparently, the charge of raising his own children. He sent me here and my sister to France as a future bride for King Charles. Charles eventually repudiated Margaret, but by the time she and I reunited, we had both grown up. We never knew each other as children.”

I couldn’t imagine it. The most time I’d spent apart from my parents had been summers in Granada, and even then my sisters were with me. My mother had overseen every aspect of our upbringing; she’d selected our tutors, corrected our workbooks, and arranged our schedules. Overpowering as her presence had been, I’d never stopped to consider that I had been fortunate, as royal children were often sent away to their own households to be reared by others.

“And your father?” I ventured. “Did he visit you?”

His smile was cold. “My father prefers Vienna, from where he can rule his mighty empire. He visited once a year. He reviewed my expenses, inquired as to my education, and then he left. Once, I begged him to stay. I was just a boy and I held on to his stirrup. ‘This is your place,’ he told me from his horse. ‘I do not want to see you cry like a girl. We are princes, and princes must learn to be alone. We must not want or need anyone. We must never show our weakness.’ ”

The cruelty of this reminded me of what my mother had said to me in Arévalo. As little as I knew about the man beside me, we had this much in common: we had both felt the iron shackle of duty, forever marking us as different from the rest of the world.

“I’ve heard similar words,” I said quietly. “They are a hard lesson indeed.”

He shrugged. “Not for me. I learned there were few things I could not do without, including my father. Until I turned twelve.” Warmth entered his voice. “That was when Besançon entered my service. My father appointed him as my spiritual adviser. He taught me everything I needed to know about being a prince. I was fourteen when I was deemed old enough to take charge of Flanders in my father’s name, and the first thing I did was petition Rome for a dispensation to make Besançon my chancellor. Though he oversees his archbishopric, his primary duty is to serve me.”

I’d never heard of such an unusual arrangement for a man of such rank. “My mother has a trusted adviser that is somewhat like him,” I said. “Archbishop Cisneros. He’s head of the See of Toledo, the greatest in Castile. But he only advises my mother on religious matters.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Philip’s voice lowered to mock severity, his hands curled at his face like claws. “They say he is so pious, he hunts down heretics wherever they might hide and wears sandals year-round, no matter the weather.”

I chuckled at his uncanny imitation and nestled beside him. He kissed my brow. “Time to sleep, little infanta. Tomorrow we rise early to escort Margaret to Antwerp and her ship for Spain, and on to Brussels. After that, I’ll take you on a tour of our future empire.” He ruffled my hair, kissing me again before he turned away. Soon thereafter, his breath deepened in sleep.

Lifting myself on my elbows, I gazed at his profile.

In the rush of emotions that had overtaken me since my arrival in Flanders, I’d not given thought to the fact that he was just seventeen, a man by royal standards, yes, and already a ruler, but scarcely adult in body or mind. I traced the width of his shoulder, recalling my anger when I’d first learned of my betrothal, my railing against my fate. I’d blamed Philip for separating me from Spain, longed to flee the loveless responsibility I thought marriage to him would entail.

My misgivings seemed so distant now, like the tantrum of a naïve, frightened child. Philip and I were destined for each other. I would be more than a wife to him, more than a mere vessel for his seed. We were both young; we had our entire lives ahead. We would learn together how to rule with benevolence and wisdom. We would bequeath a heritage of power and fortune to our children and retire to grow old together, basking in our memories. And when our bones turned to dust in a marble tomb, our blood would continue to rule after us, until the world ceased to exist.

I curled against him. He murmured, unconsciously adjusting to accommodate me, his hand bringing mine to his chest. My fingers spread over his heart, seeking its strong, steady beat.

I closed my eyes and succumbed to dreams.

WE BADE MARGARET A FOND FAREWELL AT ANTWERP, WHERE SHE
embarked on her trip to Spain. We then proceeded on to Brussels—a dense and scenic city situated in the north of Flanders. The countryside was enchanting, lush as a garden, but I was astonished by how small Philip’s duchy was, squeezed like a biscuit between northern France and the immense sprawl of the Germanic principalities. It took weeks to travel from Granada to Toledo, while we were barely in the saddle four days before we reached the bustling capital of Flanders. To me, it seemed the entire realm could have fit in a tiny corner of Castile, with room to spare. Perhaps this was why I saw so few signs of poverty or expanses of uninhabited stony land. Here, it was as if everyone had a purpose, and a place.

In the extravagantly decorated apartments of Philip’s ducal palace, I set up my first household. Or I tried to, for I soon found myself quite overwhelmed.

Philip’s court was like a city; never had I seen so many people. In Castile my mother’s court was designed for efficiency and economy. The demands of the Reconquest had reduced us to the essentials, as we had to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. In Flanders it seemed the only impetus to move was when our own stench drove us to it; moreover, the Flemish reveled in ostentatious display, augmenting their comforts with a ceaseless drive for wealth. And where better to make one’s fortune than at court? Thus, hundreds crammed into that luxurious sprawl—bishops and prelates, nobles and their retinues, ambassadors, envoys, and secretaries, the ubiquitous courtiers and hangers-on, and countless servants and menials.

And women; so many women. Wives and daughters, mistresses, noble ladies, and courtesans—all angling for the limited power accorded to our sex, all determined to make my acquaintance and earn my favor. Their dress was garish, and they wore too much paint; they preened and flirted without shame and sowed intrigue like churchmen.

Gathering in the galleries in the afternoons, they shared banter about current and past lovers, discussed trends in headwear, and dabbled in politics. They seemed to know everything that was going on in every court in Europe, who was doing what to whom. I heard of the struggles in England, where my sister Catalina was destined to go, of the horrific thirty-year civil war that had decimated the English nobility and given rise to the newly founded Tudor dynasty under Henry VII. I learned of the treacheries of the French and their quest to dominate Italy, of the corrupt Valois and their legacy of avaricious kings. I couldn’t help but find it all irresistible. Like a fly into their web I was drawn, for I was the principal lady of the court, the archduchess; and through flattery and compliments they engaged me in conversational peccadilloes while plying me with questions.

I discovered that, for them, Spain was a distant and exotic land, shrouded in superstition and the darkness of the Moorish domination, and that my mother was revered as a warrior queen. They wanted to know everything about the fall of Granada, the voyages of Cristobal Colón, and whether it was true that the caliphs had kept their wives immured, beheading any man who dared so much as glimpse at them. They gasped at my tales of the eunuchs set to guard over the harem, of the day I’d seen Boabdil brought low, and in return they showed me how to disguise the olive tint of my skin with powder and convinced me I’d look splendid in their daring fashions.

Of course, this could only lead to one thing.

A month or so after my arrival in Brussels, as I stood one afternoon with my ladies in my rooms, trying on the latest in a series of new gowns I’d ordered in anticipation of my upcoming tour of the Habsburg territories, Doña Ana burst in.

“I’ll not stand by and abide this insolence another moment. Look at you! That bodice is fit only for a woman of ill repute, and your hair should be in a snood, as befits a matron, not hanging loose under that useless confection.”

“It’s a French hood,” I said tersely. I’d hoped to keep my duenna and other matrons occupied with the mundane details of my household, entrusting my intimate needs to others. I should have known she’d not stay mum for long, and suppressed my irritation that she dared create this uproar before the bevy of Flemish ladies overseen by Madame de Halewin.

“Is this what we’ve come to, an infanta who exalts the dress of Spain’s mortal foe?”

I clenched my teeth. I was rapidly reaching my limit when it came to her recriminations.

“Doña Ana, it’s but a headdress,” I heard Beatriz say, trying to defuse the situation.

“ ‘But a headdress,’ she says!” Doña Ana turned to Madame de Halewin. The Flemish matron stood spare as a winter branch, a pincushion dangling on a chain from her waist. “You, madame,” my duenna accused. “You’ve caused nothing but trouble, turning Her Highness’s head with these extravagances! She is a princess of Spain. She has no need of such gowns.”

Madame de Halewin did not so much as raise her voice. “Her Highness told me she had nothing suitable for court occasions, as much of her trousseau sank with that ship. I simply advised her that as the archduchess, she must appear at all times befitting her rank.”

“Yes, and set yourself to fashioning a wardrobe for a common harlot!” Doña Ana spun back to me. “You should have sent word to Castile. Her Majesty would not want a foreign woman to dress you.”

My voice hardened. “Perhaps not, but I will still have a new wardrobe.” I turned back to where my women waited, holding the sections of a lovely canary velvet gown.

“Begin,” I ordered. The women hastened to dress me in the underskirt and bodice slashed with gold tissue. They attached the lynx-trimmed sleeves, fastened the stays that held girdle and bodice in place, cinching my waist into a narrow triangle. I stared defiantly into the glass, hiding my discomfort with the low, square neckline that exposed my breasts almost to my nipples.