The Last Queen (10 page)

torso narrowing into lean hips, his sculpted thighs exalting his engorged sex.

“Do you like what you see, little infanta?” he asked, and I nodded. aching now.

He dropped onto the bed. His fingers were everywhere, probing with an exquisite

sophistication, kindling even more heat, until just as I began to shudder and I heard

my own throaty gasps, he spooned my legs into his shoulder and thrust into me.

The pain was sharp, snagging my breath. I instinctually curved upward to meet his

plunge. We melded together, our hands gripping, our mouths devouring, until his

entire body arched to spill his seed, and he breathed in my ear: “Now, my Juana, now

we are one.”

__________________________________

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.

T 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

Moor‟s vanished world. I had felt then as I felt now, full of exaltation 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 from 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

had 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 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 my spiritual

advisor. 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 I did was to 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 advisor 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‟s so pious, he hunts down heretics wherever they

might hide and wears sandals year-around, 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 that he was just seventeen, a man by royal standards, yes, and

already a ruler, but scarcely an 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 lee 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 onto 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 is 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 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 efforts with a ceaseless drive for wealth. And where better to make

one‟s fortune than at court? Thus, husbands crammed into that luxurious sprawl―

bishops and prelates, nobles and their retinue, ambassadors, envoys, and secretaries,

the ubiquitous courtiers and hangers-on, and the 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 the 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 room, 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 to 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 heart 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‟s 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 at 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.