The Last Queen (2 page)

knew. She had planned this. By granting mercy when he least expected it, she had

destroyed the Moor‟s soul.

His face ashen, Boabdil came to his feet. Burned earth clung to his knees.

The lords closed in around him leading him away. I averted my eyes. I knew that

if he‟d been victorious he would not have hesitated to order the deaths of my father

and my brother, of every noble and soldier on this field. He‟d have enslaved my

sisters and me, defamed and executed my mother. He and his kind had defiled Spain

for too long. At last, our country was united under one throne, one church, one God.

I should rejoice in his subjugation.

Yet what I most wanted to do was console him.

__________________

WE ENTERED GRANADA in resplendent procession, the battered crucifix sent by

His Holiness to consecrate heretic mosques carried aloft before us, followed by the

nobility and clergy.

Discordant wailing sundered the air. The Jewish warehouses were being

impounded. Gorged with fragrant spices, yards of silk and velvet, and crates of

medicinal herbs, the market represented Granada‟s true wealth, and my mother had

ordered the wares secured against looting. Later she would have them inventoried,

tallied, and sold to replenish Castile‟s treasury.

Riding with my sisters and our ladies, I gazed in disbelief upon the ravaged city.

Shattered buildings stood empty, seared by flame. Our catapults had leveled entire

walls, and the stench of rotting flesh wafted form the mounds of broken stone. I saw

an emaciated child standing motionless besides some dead rotting animal bound to a

spit; as we passed, gaunt women knelt in the ruins. I met their impenetrable stares. I

saw no hatred or fear, no remorse, as if the very life had been drained from them.

Then we started to ascend the road to the Alhambra― that legendary palace built

by the Moors in their flush of glory. I couldn‟t resist rising in my saddle to peer

through the gusts of dust kicked up by the horses, hoping to be the first to see its

fabled walls.

Someone cried out.

Around me the women pulled their mounts to a halt. I looked about in

bewilderment before returning my gaze to the road ahead.

I froze.

A high tower thrust into the sky like a mirage. On its parapet I could see a tiny

group of figures, the wind snatching their veils and flimsy wraps, light sparkling on

the metallic threads woven through their gowns.,

Behind me Doña Ana hissed, “Quick, cover the child‟s face. She must not see

this.”

I swiveled in my saddle to look at Catalina. My sister‟s eyes met mine in fearful

confusion before one of the ladies pulled the veil over her face. I clenched at my

reins, turning back around. A cry of warning hurtled up my throat as I saw, in

paralyzing horror, the figures seeming to step out over the parapet, like birds about to

take flight.

Around me, the ladies gasped in unison. The figures floated for an impossible

moment in the air, weightless, shedding veils. Then they plummeted downward like

stones.

I closed my eyes. I willed myself to breathe.

“See?” chortled Doña Ana. “Boabdil‟s harem. They refused to leave the palace.

Now we know why. Those heathen whores will burn in hell for all eternity.”

All eternity.

The words echoed in my head, a terrible punishment I could not imagine. Why

had they done it?
How
could they have done it? I kept seeing those fragile forms in the pinpricked darkness behind my eyelids, and as we rode under the Alhambra‟s gateway,

I did not point and laugh with the other women at the broken bodies strewn on the

rocks below.

My parents, Juan, and Isabella swept ahead with the nobility. Maria, Catalina and I

remained behind with our women. Taking Catalina by the hand and hushing her

anxious questions, for she knew something terrible had happened, I gazed at the

citadel. With the afternoon light turning to vermilion on its tiled façade, it appeared

blood-soaked, a place of death and destruction. And still I was overwhelmed by its

exotic splendor.

The Alhambra was unlike any palace I‟d ever seen. In Castile, royal residences

doubled as fortresses, encircled by moats and enclosed by thick walls. The Moorish

palace had the mountain gorge for protection and so it sprawled like a lion on its

plateau, sheltered by cypress and pine.

Doña Ana motioned to Maria; together with our ladies-in-waiting, we marched

into the audience hall. With Catalina‟s hand still clutching mine, I took in everything at once, my heart beating fast as I began to see just how magnificent the Moor‟s world

was.

An immense space of saffron and pearl opened before me. There were no scarred

doors, no suffocating staircases or cramped passageways. Instead carved archways

welcomed me into rooms where honeycomb walls curved, and secret mosaic terraces

could be glimpsed. Glazed porcelain vases held vigil under smoke darkened hangings

of every imaginable hue; quilted pillows and divans were strewn about as if their

occupants had just retired. I looked down at my feet to a scarf coiled on the tiled

floor. I feared to touch it, thinking it might have been dropped by one of the

concubines on her doomed race to the tower.

I had dwelled in ignorance. No one had told me the heretic could create

something so beautiful. I gazed up to an inverted cupola. About its perimeter, the

painted faces of dead caliphs stared at me with laconic reproach. I swayed where I

stood, overcome. I now understood why the concubines had chosen death. Like

Boabdil, they could not bear to live without this Eden that had been their home.

The scent of musk crept past me. I heard water everywhere, a constant murmur as

it flowed through rivulets carved in the marble floors, emptying into alabaster pools,

set to dance in the patio fountains.

I paused. A sigh shifted through the pilasters, stirring the hair of my nape.

Catalina whispered, “
Hermana,
what is it? What do you hear?”

I shook my head. I could not explain.

Who would have believed me if I said I could hear the Moor‟s lament?

__________________________________

or three magical years, Granada became our haven from the grueling pace of

the court. With the end of the Reconquest, my mother turned her focus to

F strengthening Spain and forging alliances with other sovereigns. Travel still

took up the majority of her schedule, but she deemed it best if we had a permanent

household during the summer months, far from the pestilence and heat that plagued

Castile.

My sister Catalina‟s betrothal to Henry VII of England‟s eldest son was celebrated

a year after Granada‟s fall, reminding me that I too had been promised in my

childhood to the Habsburg emperor‟s son, Philip of Flanders. I was not unduly

concerned. The only one of my sisters to actually wed was Isabella, and several

betrothals were mentioned for her before she went to Portugal and returned a widow

less than a year later. I knew few princesses had a say in their destiny, but I didn‟t care to brood on a future that seemed distant and prone to change.

In Granada my world was full of youthful promise. After our daily lessons of

history, mathematics, languages, music, and dance, my sisters and I often went to the

lovely terraced patio at the edge of the gardens, where we practiced the ageless

pastime of royal women: embroidery. Ours was a special task, however, for our simple

cloths would be blessed and sent to adorn church altars throughout Spain as gifts

from the infantas.

I loathed sewing. I had an impatient nature, and as I approached my sixteenth

year, I found it almost impossible to sit still for any length of time. My altar cloths

were fit only for washing the church floor, riddled as they were with botched patterns

and snarled threads. I usually pretended to embroider, while keeping close watch over

Doña Ana, anticipating the time of my escape.

The duenna sat under the colonnade, a tome in her hands, from which she read

aloud the passion of some martyred saint. It was never long before her head began to

bob on her squat neck, her eyelids fluttering as she fought in vain against torpor.

When her eyes finally closed, I allowed a few more minutes to pass. Then I set

aside my embroidery, slid my slippers from my feet and inched up from my stool.

Maria and Isabella sat exchanging confidences. As I tiptoed past them, slippers in

hand, Isabella hissed, “Juana, where do you think you‟re going?”

I ignored her, motioning to Catalina. My little sister leapt up, her embroidery

falling unheeded to the ground. With a smile, I said, “Come,
pequeñita.
I‟ve something to show you.”

“Is it a surprise?” Catalina eagerly kicked off her slippers. She stopped, clapped a

hand to her mouth, and glanced at Doña Ana. The duenna slumbered, oblivious. It

would take an elephant‟s approach to wake her now and I choked back a sudden

giggle.

Naturally, Maria thought the world would come to an end if any of us deviated

from our regimen. In a scandalized whisper she said, “Juana, you‟ll catch your death

of cold running about barefoot. Sit down. You can‟t take Catalina into the gardens

without proper escort.”

“Who says we don‟t have an escort?” I retorted, and I crooked my finger. From

the terrace pillars behind us, a slight shadow uncoiled and approached.

She stood expectant, her hooded liquid-black eyes gleaming and curly hair the

color of a raven‟s wing braided about her head. Though she wore a proper Castilian

gown, the aura of cinnabar and jangling bracelets still clung to her. I smiled when I

saw she too was barefoot.

Her name was Soraya. She had been found hiding in the Alhambra‟s harem and

no one knew if she was a slave left behind when the concubines committed suicide or

the daughter of one of the caliph‟s lesser wives. She‟d begged for mercy in her Arabic

tongue and readily converted; no more than thirteen years old, it mattered little to her

which god she venerated as long as she lived. I implored my father to let her serve me

as a handmaiden and he agreed, despite my mother‟s objection. She never strayed far

from my side, sleeping at the foot of my bed on a cot and padding behind me like a

cat by day. I spent hours teaching her Spanish and she learned quickly, but more often

than not she preferred to keep her silence. She had been baptized with the ubiquitous

Christian name of Maria; she never responded to it, though, and so we all came to

accept the name she‟d come with.

I adored her.

“That heretic slave?” My sister Isabella now hissed. “She is not a proper escort!”

I tossed my head, clasped Catalina and Soraya by the hands, and crept off into the

gardens.

Stifling laughter, we stole into a rose bower that had once been the caliphs‟ private

retreat. Soraya knew the gardens like the palm of her hand: she had taken me here

countless times on forbidden excursions and she knew where I wanted to go. Dusk

has started to envelop the sky in a violet swirl. She made an urgent gesture; I dashed

forward, nearly tugging Catalina off her feet. “Hurry! Soraya says we must get there

before night falls.”

I yanked Catalina forth, Soraya loping ahead. My sister gaped, “Juana, slow down.

I can‟t run as fast as you two.” She came to a stubborn halt. “My feet hurt.” Dropping

her slippers, she shoved her grass-stained feet back into them. “You tore your skirt

when we went through the bushes,” she added. “It‟s the third skirt you‟ve ruined this

week. Doña Ana will be furious.”

I glanced at the tear. I could care less about Doña Ana‟s anger. We had reached

the lower gardens; ahead a crumbling wall bordered the gorge‟s deep chasm. In the

distance loomed the Sacromonte hills, pockmarked with caves. Soraya stood by the

wall. She pointed upward.

I lifted my eyes to the amethyst sky. “Look!” A lone shaped flittered above us. It

was followed by another, then another, and another, until myriad creatures weaved a

leathery lattice, crisscrossing without touching, the swift beating of their wings

invisible to the eye.

A shiver went through me. I knew they wouldn‟t harm us, but I couldn‟t help but

feel some fear, though I had come to see them several times before.

Catalina pressed closed to me. “What― what are they?”

“What I wanted to show you. Those,
pequeñita,
are bats.”

“But― but bats are evil! Doña Ana says they nest in our hair.”

“Nonsense. They are just animals.” I could not look away, transfixed by their

stealth, wishing suddenly that I too could sour through the air like that, dusk on my

skin.

“Watch closely. See how they pass over us without a sound? Though it will soon

be dark, they never lose their way.” I glanced at Catalina. She was pale. I sighed,

dropped to one knee. “I too was frightened the first time I saw them. But they

ignored me as if I didn‟t exist.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “You mustn‟t be afraid.

Bats eat fruit, not people.”

“How do you know?” she quavered.

“Because I‟ve watched them before; I‟ve seen them feed. Watch this.” From my

gown pocket I withdrew a pomegranate. I bit hard into its tough outer skin, exposing