The Creation Of Eve (7 page)

ITEM: Of the three wives of King Felipe of Spain, his first, his cousin Princess Maria of Portugal, died at the age of seventeen from bearing him a son. His second, Queen Mary of England, died from heartbreak or a tumor in her womb, depending on who tells the tale. His third is young Elisabeth of Valois. King Felipe had asked Elizabeth of England to marry him when her half sister Queen Mary died. She refused.

ITEM:Remember when in Spain to address members of the Royal Family and grandees with Don or Dona before their given names. Distinguished persons of lesser rank may also be referred to as don or dona, but in the written form, the term is not capitalized.

ITEM: It is true, one may paint upon an unprepared canvas, but for permanent work it is a loss of effort and a waste of time.

31 JANUARY 1560

Mendoza Palace, Guadalajara

These terrible spots of ink. It is a bad quill, but if I wait for the wine to clear from my head to cut another nib, I shall never get this record started, and I want to write of my travels to Spain. I can hear Francesca over in the bed, muttering in her peasant's Italian. She wishes I would come to sleep so that she can rest, but this chamber is so cold, how does one slumber? They have no fireplaces in this country, only braziers burning olive pits in the center of the room. I can see my breath.

I have made no entries in my notebook since I left home. Fifteen rainy days in a coach to Genoa, nine days below deck on a caravel whose very timbers, along with one's guts, were nearly torn apart by the winter seas, eight days in Barcelona recovering from a fever in a lice-infested inn, twelve days on a teeth-rattling coach ride to Zaragoza, and sixteen days spent picking through snowy mountain passes and across high plains on a disgruntled mule are not conducive to putting pen to paper, especially in the watchful company of one's two rich cousins from Milan and their silent young wives. And no sooner had said cousins delivered Francesca and me in Madrid, their duty duly discharged and their hopes of meeting the King dashed, than I was in a conveyance again. There was no time to write, but plenty of it to chastise myself for believing as I had readied for Spain that Tiberio's betrothal letter would arrive to save me. I had never truly thought it would come to this. Fool. Now I am the King's ward and, as such, His Majesty's property to Utilize as he pleases. At least my sisters may have my dowry portion.

Meanwhile, as I was making my way across treacherous terrain, the new Queen of Spain was threading through frozen mountainous passages of her own. Her journey had begun in Paris, where she had been wed by proxy to the King. They were to meet for the first time in Guadalajara, where I was required to attend their Union, the beginning of my duties in my new role as one of Her Majesty's ladies.

For this reason I suffered to trundle these last two days over stony Castilian roads from Madrid, in a coach jammed with eight chattering perfumed Spanish ladies clutching their shawls and their small-bladdered dogs, with Francesca cutting her eyes accusingly at the pups each time we hit a bump. After a night four-to-a-bed with these ladies and their female companions at an inn along the way, I can assure you that the lapdog's ability to draw fleas away from its owner is highly overesteemed.

At last this morning my travels came to an end. I stood in a host of ladies lined Up farthingale to farthingale in the plaza before the palace of the Duke of Mendoza, all of Us straining to glimpse the new Queen. Under the four hundred blooming orange trees the duke had caused to be brought to Guadalajara from Valencia, deer and rabbits, prettily tethered to the trees for the Queen's amusement, tugged at their satin collars while trumpets played, children sang, and women laughed with joy in spite of the cold wind tearing at their veils. For even if the new Queen turned out to be Ugly and dull, the people rejoiced to have her, thanks to the deal made between their King and her father, the King of France. Her marriage sealed the treaty between mortal enemies, and now war with France was lifted, and with it, crushing taxes. Isabel de la Paz
--
Elisabeth of the Peace--the Spanish call her.

Now this fourteen-year-old girl--a child Europa's age--eighteen years younger than her powerful new husband, rode into the plaza on a white palfrey draped in cloth of silver that was trimmed with tinkling silver bells. She looked this way and that, her dark eyes bright with excitement, the ends of her Undressed brown hair slapping against her saddle. Like Europa, she seemed ready to laugh, perhaps too ready to do so, with her lips curled on the verge of a chuckle. So this was the child for whom I put aside any hope of becoming a
maestra
because the King, Upon hearing about me from the Duke of Alba, thought his little bride might enjoy painting lessons.

My Lady's steed jingled to a stop before the King's dais. The silvery bells still pinging in the freezing wind, the Duke of Mendoza stepped forward and plucked the Queen from her horse, then, as unceremoniously as if she were a bag of gold, handed her to her husband. She pulled back her chin in a bashful smile.

"What are you looking at?" the King snapped. "The gray hairs in my beard?"

The musicians stopped playing. The King's men looked Up from bended knees, the plumes in their hats fluttering above their frozen expressions. All of Us ladies who were close at hand held our breath--at least I did, there beneath one of the flowering orange trees. It became so quiet that all you could hear was the wine splashing in the fountain in the middle of the plaza, a child crying, and the deer and rabbits, trying to shake off their satin collars.

For while the King at two-and-thirty is fair-haired and almost delicate, with exquisitely shaped brows, a small straight nose, and pink-rimmed ears, there is something vaguely terrifying about him. Perhaps it is the way he stands so rigidly Upright. His thin figure nearly vibrates like a plucked guitar string from the effort. Or perhaps it is the manner in which he responds to those bold enough to address him. He pins the speaker with a coolly polite stare, not releasing the hapless creature Until he or she trails off in a muddle of doubt and dismay. It could be simply the disquieting contrast his lush red lips and generous jaw present next to the rest of his refined features. He has the sensuous mouth of a voluptuary, a passionate seducer of women, not a cold and silent king. Perhaps I make too much of these things, influenced by the knowledge that insanity runs through the Spanish Royal Family like rot through a luscious apple. Madness is as much a part of the King's Hapsburg blood as his jaw and blond, now graying, hair.

But none of this seemed to bother the Queen, for an elfin grin spread over her face. She fell to her knees, dashing the pearls sewn onto her heavy brocade skirts against the paving stones. So much did I think of Europa when the little Queen snatched Up the King's hand and pressed it to her lips that I almost expected her to say, "Papa, forgive me."

But this was not my little Europa. And this was not Papa in his house slippers relaxing at home after a day of printing Bibles. This was the most powerful man in the world, a serious, dangerous man, with neither the time nor the inclination for a jest.

The King pulled away his hand. "Please rise. You shall ruin your clothes."

As in a beloved lapdog that has just been kicked, surprise then confusion flashed across her young face.

The bells of the church across the plaza began to peal. The Queen stumbled to her feet, tripping on the pearl-sewn folds of her gown. The duke shot out a gloved hand to steady her.

I cannot guess how this child Queen fares in the bridal chamber tonight.

But I was writing of this day. After the meeting of the King and Queen in the morning, we all processed to Mass said by Cardinal Mendoza, the brother of the duke, and then back into the palace for introductions, then through the Moorish arches of the arcade to the dining hall on the other side of the courtyard, where whole farmyards of creatures, roasted, minced, or candied, lay Upon the table, the smell of their cooked flesh mingling with the perfume of the grandees and their ladies. When the banquet was over, all I wished to do was to crawl off to a bench with my corset strings loosened. But there were speeches to hear and a play to attend (for which the scenery was cunningly painted--I must find out who did it), and always wine and more wine to drink, though the Spanish ladies hardly took a drop of it, as busy as they were with staring at the Queen's French ladies, who were daintily imbibing great vats of the wine while flirting with the gentlemen. After eyeing my Unfashionable Italian dress (does no one wear striped skirts here?), neither Spanish nor French wished to interact with me. I was left alone with my frequently refilled cup and Francesca's glare boring into my back from where she stood in the servants' gallery.

Then, just when I was ready to float away on a sea of the grape, there was dancing, of the usual hopping Spanish sort, and very much of it, too, so when the King called for a galliard--a galliard, of all dances, with all its leaps!--no one had the wind to set forth.

"My Lady?" The King kissed the Queen's small hand, his eyes chillingly calm. "Do you wish to dance?"

The room fell silent.

The Queen laughed and shook her head, making the light brown wisps that peeked from Under her pearl-encrusted cap stick to her cheeks with sweat. The child had been made to hop about with a stone-weight of jewels sewn Upon her gown. No wonder she was hot. Her clothes alone must have weighed more than her young self, even without the pearl the size of a pigeon's egg hanging from the diamond-and-ruby brooch Upon her chest. Each time she stepped it thumped her like a fist.

The King's nephew, a boy of the Queen's same age, came over to where I stood on the dance floor, noisily catching my breath. The scarlet satin of his slashed sleeves flowed as he swept into a bow, trailing his scent of perfume and youthful sweat.

"My lady Sofonisba Anguissola." His youth's changeable voice was loud enough for all to hear. "Do you know the galliard?"

I started. Why would the King's nephew know me? I was no one, a simple painting teacher, the daughter of a threadbare count who read more books than he sold.

I lowered my eyes to lessen their similarity to an owl's great orbs. "Indeed, sir. We dance the galliard in my native town of Cremona."

There were polite murmurs of approval from the assembly.

"I know where you are from," he said as boldly as his youth's raw squawk would allow. Even at his awkward age, a boy on the cusp of manhood, he was an attractive youth, with dark ringlets and a slightly turned-up nose dusted with freckles. "Will you do me the honor of joining me?"

I glanced at the King, whose face was composed and inscrutable, then at the Queen. She smiled at me in encouragement.

"The honor is mine," I said, though my guts did turn most sharply. How would I hold Up while dancing before the most formal court in the world? Knowing how to paint the hairs on a child's head is one matter, moving with grace is another.

All eyes Upon Us, we took to the floor, and encouraged by the sprightly sounds of the shawms, sackbut, and tambour, I began picking out the intricate hops and leaps of the galliard. I thank Papa for all of the lessons he Urged Upon me and my sisters Under dear signore Vari, our bad-breathed dancing master. Signore Vari's instruction and breath came strongly to mind as I sailed through the air in my first great leap of the
posture
, though the memory ceased the moment I hit ground, for my partner clasped my hands and spoke.

"I am Alessandro Farnese. My mother is the King's sister, but I was born in the Italian states. I would be there still if my father had not--" He glanced at the King, then was silent. The sound of soft leather scraping the tile floor and the swish of heavy cloth accompanied our steps.

Perhaps his interest in me was due to his affection toward his native country. "Do you speak Italian, sir?"

"Like a Roman lady of the night," he answered in Italian. "I speak French and Spanish, too."

Impudent. But perhaps recent events had made me too sensitive. "In which do you dream?" I said lightly.

My partner's face was so close to mine that I could see the nutmegcolored down of early manhood Upon his Upper lip. "That is easy--Italian for my dreams of home, Spanish for my nightmares, and French for the dreams that dampen my sheets."

We hopped apart, heat creeping into my face. I could ignore one bawdy reference, but two? Surely he would not have spoken so boldly to a woman of pure repute. Had word traveled across the sea? Had Tiberio betrayed me, laughing of his conquest of the Great Virgin? Had maestro Michelangelo spoken of the cat in heat he had harbored in his home? Surely I was letting my guilt get the best of me. The conduct of a lowly painting teacher would be of no import to the nephew of the King.

We commenced into the next pattern, I performing the steps and hops with difficulty, Don Alessandro grinning as if he owned the heavens. Between the wish to look my best for the occasion and my ongoing celebration of the resumption of my courses in July, I'd had Francesca tie my corset extra tight. Now gripped by anxiety and the iron stays digging into my ribs, I could scarcely draw wind.