The Last Queen (18 page)

clanked like a bishop as she handed Charles to his nursemaid and dropped onto a

stool beside me, her elongated features aglow with health.

“Must you go back?” I said. “I want to keep you here with us, selfish that I am.

You‟re so good with the children, and we need every extra pair of hands we can get.”

She laughed. “You‟ve an entire palace of servants to serve you, my dear!” She

patted my hand. “I wish I could stay. My husband is a frightful old goat, but he‟s quite

fond of me and rather rich, so what else can I do? I did tell my father this is absolutely the last marriage I‟ll consent to for the sake of his empire.” She let out a sigh. “But I‟ll miss the little ones so. Children bring such joy to one‟s life.

“You‟ll make a wonderful mother someday. Perhaps you and the duke―”

Her bray startled my ladies seated nearby. “
Ma chérie,
how charming of you! Alas, my poor duke has barely enough strength to mount his close stool, much less me.”

We giggled. Then Margaret said, “I don‟t believe I‟ve ever seen you so happy.”

She went silent for a moment. “Is everything well then?”

“It is,” I said softly.

She nodded. “Good. That is how it should be.” She turned her gaze to the garden

where Eleanor was yanking Madame de Halewin toward the fountain. Margaret leapt

up. “You naughty child! Stop dragging poor Madame about like a mule!” She marched

off to rescue the governess, scooping up Eleanor up in her arms.

Madame staggered back to the ladies. “The child has the energy of three,” she

panted.

Doña Ana remarked dryly, “You should sit, madame, before you drop dead of

apoplexy.”

I resisted a chuckle. With the birth of my children, my duenna and the governess

had found a modicum of mutual accord, for even Doña Ana had to agree that

Madame‟s years of experience made her the perfect instructor for Eleanor.

I raised my hand to my brow, shielding the sun. It promised to be an

unseasonably warm afternoon and I looked forward to a nap in the coolness of my

rooms before the evening banquet. Then I caught sight of a page running toward me,

dressed in our livery of black and yellow.

He came to a breathless halt and bowed low. Sweat dripped from the curls under

his cap. “His Highness asks that Your Highness join him. An urgent missive has

arrived from Spain.”

His words flung a pall over the sun. I rose, ignoring Doña Ana‟s stare as I called

to Margaret, “Philip is asking for me. Will you see to the children?”

_________________

TENSION LAY THICK IN THE CHAMBER. My stomach knotted when I saw

Besançon seated at Philip‟s desk, a boulder in satin, and silly tonsure cap, his

unblinking toad-like stare fixed on me as I entered the room. Philip turned from

where he stood by the window, his face in shadow. He started to move to me when

the archbishop burst out without warning, “We‟ve received momentous news. The

infante Miguel is dead. Your Highness is the new heiress of Castile.”

I felt myself gasp but did not hear my own voice, searching Philip‟s expression for

the confirmation I did not want to hear. He said, “I am sorry, my love. Your mother

has sent word, requesting that we go to Spain as soon as possible.”

I found it hard to draw a full breath. “How?” I whispered. “How did my sister‟s

son die?”

“His lungs failed him, poor soul.” Besançon genuflected cursorily before lifting a

sheaf of documents from the desk. “Now then, these papers must be signed and―”

A sudden fury surged in me. “M father has suffered a terrible loss. I‟ll sign no

papers today.”

He paused. One thin, fair brow arched. “Your Highness, I fear this matter cannot

wait.”

“Well, it must!” I rounded on him, releasing in my distraught stare the venom I‟d

nursed toward him. “You astound me, my lord. Have you inclination to the holy

office you purport to serve? You speak of the death of an infante of Spain!”

I felt Philip‟s hand on my shoulder, though I had not seen him move to me. “My

lord,” he murmured. “Let it be.”

“But, Your Highness, the document― It must―”

“I said let it be. I will speak with her. Now go.”

His jowls quivering, Besançon swept out, his robes hissing on the floor like an

empty tail.

Philip put a goblet in my hand. “Drink, my love. You‟ve gone white like a sheet.”

The warm claret hit my stomach like lead. A terrible queasiness overcame me. It

must be the heat, I thought faintly, the heat and shock of the news.

I set the goblet aside with a shaking hand. “What are we going to do?” I said, and

I realized I spoke as if of a catastrophe, and earthquake, or terrible fire that had

upended my entire world.

I was Spain‟s heir. When my parents died, I would be queen. Tragedy had cut a

swath through my family and brought me to this unexpected frightening place. What I

had never imagined possible had come to pass. Spain now waited for me.

As if from a vast distance, I heard Philip say, “We must prepare, of course. But

first we‟ll send Besançon to meet with your parents in person.”

I pulled myself to attention. “No. Not him.”

Philip‟s mouth tightened. “Why not? He is my chancellor.”

“Because I― I do not trust him.”

“Juana, this is no time for grievances. He is an expert in these matters: he knows

best how to handle such scenarios.” He held up a hand. “And don‟t tell me he

mishandled that affair with your matrons. We need an experienced advisor, and I trust

him with my life. We are the heirs of Castile and Aragón. We must present ourselves

appropriately.”

I marked the subtle change in him, his chest puffed out and chin erect, as if he

already wore the crown of prince consort. The title Besançon had sought for him

from my parents was now his, and he seemed as comfortable with it as I was not. I

thought it was normal for him; he was used to being a sole heir and the center of

attention, but I could scarcely believe it was happening. How could my life had turned

so momentous so quickly?

The air in the room felt heavy. “I‟d still prefer we send another,” I said. “Or

perhaps we could just go ourselves. My mother did ask for us, not Besançon.”

I heard his foot tap on the floor. “Juana,” he said, with a hint of impatience,

“you‟re not thinking clearly. Such a trip cannot be planned overnight. We could b e

gone months; we have our children to consider, my councilors, and the Estates-

General to address. No, best to let Besançon pave our way; he can convey our

condolences and sign any official documents, then consult with your mother and her

council. He is, after all, Cisneros of Toledo‟s equal.”

He was right, of course. We couldn‟t simply leave. We had a newborn son, a

daughter, our households, our entire court. I started to give my reluctant consent

when I realized my teeth were chattering. I felt a chill seep into my very bones. I

swayed on my chair; as he moved quickly to catch me I whispered, “My women― call

for my women.”

Then blackness overcame me.

_________________

I AWOKE HOURS LATER IN MY BED, my entire body aching as though I‟d taken a

fall from a horse. At my bedside, Doña Ana wrung out and replaced the marigold-

soaked cloth on my brow. Beatriz and Soraya looked on anxiously.

“Am I sick?” I asked. The mere act of speaking made me want to retch. I‟d

contracted some plague, I thought. The curse that claimed my brother and sister was

about to claim me.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” replied Doña Ana. “You‟re with child again.”

I stared at her. “That‟s not possible. I― I‟ve never felt this ill before.”

“Nevertheless, you are with child.” She sniffed. “You have all the signs. It‟s hardly

surprising, not when a woman will indulge herself as much as you do.”

I sank into my pillows. The timing couldn‟t have been worse.

Doña Ana stood. “You‟d best rest now while you can. When a babe acts up this

early, the rest of the term is bound to be difficult.”

“That isn‟t what I need to hear,” I groused. I turned away, yanking my covers

over my head.

Within moments I succumbed to sleep.

__________________________________

ust as Doña Ana predicted, my third pregnancy proved to be my worst. Never had

I felt so wretched or exhausted. I did not bestir myself to witness Besançon‟s

J pontifical departure for Spain, his saddlebags stuffed with documents and his

retinue large enough to fill a hamlet. I did not greet the envoys who came from all

over Europe to seek favor with the new heirs of Spain. I took refuge in my rooms,

knowing as soon as I delivered my child, all of that, and more would be waiting for

me.

On June 15, 1501, after seven agonizing hours of labor that proved a fitting end

to her gestation, I gave birth to another daughter. I barely looked up from my sweat-

drenched pillows as the midwives cleansed and swaddled her. I feared I might hate

her after the misery she‟d put me through. But when she was set in my arms and I

took one look at her limpid blue eyes, everything melted away, With the golden fuzz

on her still-soft and misshapen head― sure sign that like my mother in her youth, she

would have hair as rich as a Castilian wheat field― she was the child I had awaited,

without ever knowing it.

“Isabella,” I announced. “I shall call her Isabella, in honor of my mother and

sister.”

I shook my head when Doña Ana came to take her from me to the robust peasant

woman chosen as a nursemaid. Instead, to my duenna‟s gasp, I unlaced my shift. The

greedy numb of Isabella‟s mouth on my aching nipple sent pleasure rippling through

me. I closed my eyes, ignoring Doña Ana‟s remark that such a think had never been

see, a woman of the blood royal giving teat like a cow in a field.

Philip came to visit me while I recovered and recounted with a laugh that I was

the scandal of the court, word having gotten out that I nursed my own infant. He held

Isabella and complimented me on her perfection, and then he told me he had received

a communiqué from Besançon, saying all was going as planned in Spain.

With the child out of my womb and my malaise subsided, the news made me sit

upright. “What does he mean,
as planned?
”

“Nothing for you to fret about,” he said and he kissed me. “Now rest. You need

your strength. We have a trip to Spain to plan, remember?”

Three weeks after the birth, I still had not relinquished Isabella to Madame de

Halewin and the battalion of servants waiting to earn their keep. I ordered a crib set

up near my own bed, and kept her there by my side day and night.

Philip went to meet with his Estates-General, leaving me in a palace full of

women and old men. Times past, I would have missed him. Not now. I had recovered

my strength and my wits, and I had my own business to take care of. I sat at my desk

and wrote a long missive to my mother, telling her of Isabella‟s birth and asking for

news. I included a substantial donation for masses to be said for my late sister and her

dead babe and assured my mother I was preparing to come as soon as arrangements

could be made.

I then had my apartments cleaned, my plate polished, all my gowns aired. I saw to

Eleanor‟s first lessons and the weaning of Charles from his nursemaid; above all else,

I attended to my Isabella. Never had I felt so protective. It was almost as thought I

sought to shield my child from some unseen threat, though I could not name what I

feared.

We were playing together in my rooms, I dangling a gilded rattle with a tiny bell

over her as she cooed, and pedaled her tiny feet, when Beatriz brought me the letter.

“This just arrived with the courier from Brussels.” She gave me a searching look

before she swept a delighted Isabella up, taking her into the bedchamber while I went

to my desk, letter in hand. Cracking the seal, I unfolded the wide rough parchment. I

recognized its grain at once; my mother‟s stationary lacked the silky hue of my own

letter stock.

For a moment, all of my childhood trepidations came flooding back as if the great

Isabel might stride into my chamber at any moment to test my readiness to assume

her throne. I had never been her favorite: I had never been her chosen successor. But

as I held the letter closer to my face, I discerned the faint scent of candle-smoke and a touch of lavender, and it brought sudden tears to my eyes. I looked at my mother‟s

handwriting slanted across the page.

My dearest
hija,

I trust this letter reaches you in good health. I have prayed for you every day,

so that you find succor in what is surely a woman’s most exacting hour. But I knew

God would see you safely delivered of your child. for you are strong of body as I

once was. Never did the childbed test me as it did others. Your news that you have

safely delivered a daughter christened in my honor also brings a welcome balm to

my heart, for I have just sent your sister Catalina to her marriage in England, and

I miss her company dearly, as she was my last child, and of great comfort to me in

this time of dolor.

I write to you now because I am like Jonah in the whale, fighting the

insurmountable. The lord archbishop Besançon has just left us, unsatisfied, I fear.