The Last Queen (34 page)

word outside at bay. They brought my little Isabella to see me after she raised a fuss

that she missed her Mamá, but I saw in her frightened gaze and gently uttered, “Dos it

hurt?” that she sensed something was terribly wrong. Holding back my tears, I

reassured her that Mamá was just a little sick and she must wait for me to get better so

I could come to her.

When Beatriz informed me that Philip had announced she would leave tomorrow

on a hunting excursion, I ordered her to see me dressed and accompany me to the

gallery. I had not been out of my rooms in weeks; as I entered the gallery in my black

brocade Spanish gown, the veil of my coif drawn over my face to hide my bruises,

idling courtiers stopped and stared, so taken aback they forgot to offer their

obeisance. I moved past them as if they didn‟t exist, paused at the diamond paned bay

window overlooking the inner palace courtyard.

A light rain fell like satin, turning the brick walls a moist red and exalting the loud

colors of the company below. No one would see me, even if they thought to glace up.

In my unrelieved black, I was a shadow. I saw my husband and his group of mincing

favorites mount their horses. Don Manuel was with them, a toad in gaudy green

velvet on a pony, his rings flashing dully on his gauntlets. Professional falconers rode

behind with a cart carrying a week‟s supply of foodstuffs. It seemed my husband was

going to the same lodge where he‟d taken me once, years before.

I saw only four women. I ignored three of them; they were obviously professional

courtesans in their garish low-cut dresses and ceruse lathered on their faces.

The fourth, however, I marked. She sat on a palfrey, her wealth of fair hair coiled

about her face and threaded with the distinctive blue-gray of my pearls. Even from

where I stood, I saw she was pretty but not much remarkably so― a French doll with

her pale complexion and rubicund lips. My husband brought his horse close to her;

my breath caught when he reached out to tuck her trailing cloak over her palfrey‟s

hindquarters, exposing her full breast in a gray velvet bodice I recognized as one of

mine. His gloved hand caressed her; she arched her throat and laughed.

On her bodice, I espied a gold brooch with the arms of Castile― the very brooch

I had given to Louis and Anne of Brittany in France, as a mocking gift for their

daughter.

A black flame pulsed in the core of my being. I turned away, returned to my

rooms.

There I waited. I did not go to the gardens or visit my children. I did not venture

outside my doors. Each day seemed an eternity; each night a lifetime as I felt myself

succumb to something so terrifying and insatiable I wondered that no one else could

see it.

This time there would be no forgiveness.

――――――――――――――――――――――――

THE NIGHT OF PHILIP‟S RETURN I ENTERED THE HALL ALONE. Beatriz had begged

me to let her go with me as she helped me dress. My choice of the same crimson

grown that I had been violated in alerted her that whatever I planned, it couldn‟t be

good. But I ordered her and Soraya to stay behind. I also wore my hair loose and

distained all jewels. The bruises on my face had faded to faint yellowish

discolorations; these were decoration enough.

Only a few astonished murmurs from those closest to the hall entrance greeted

my appearance. No doubt everyone at court had heard by now of the altercation of

my apartments and my seclusion, but I had deliberately come late. The tables were

already drawn back for the dancing and everyone fast on their way to complete

drunkenness. On the dais Philips chair was empty; at his left side, where Besançon

had once sat, was Don Manuel. He looked up and froze, his protuberant black eyes

bulging even more. He rose and started to scamper down the steps, shoving at the

courtiers barring his way as if the floor under his little feet had taken flame.

I followed his intended direction to where my husband stood. Philip was flushed,

a goblet in his hand as he guffawed with his men. Not too far away, seated in a

demure but prominent placement before the long, magnificent tapestries lining the

hall, was the woman. Tonight she wore an opalescent gown that had also belonged to

me, altered to fit her larger bosom. Her hair― in truth, I though, her only claim to

beauty― fell in a contrived cascade of spun gold to her waist. She sat surrounded by

ladies of questionable virtue, my pearls now coiled about her throat. As she gestured

with her plump hands, I saw her gaze turn again and again to Philip.

Once again on her breast, she displayed my brooch.

I surveyed her from where I stood. Then I walked straight toward her, carving a

path through the courtiers on the floor, smelling their rank sweat and musk but

scarcely hearing their shrieking laughter and clang of goblets. As I neared her, I caught sight of Don Manuel breaking free from an inebriated lord who‟d latched onto his

sleeve to gabble in his ear. He was now rushing as fast as he could to Philip, his hands

wagging in comical desperation. It made me want to laugh. He could have shouted to

the eaves. With the music and other noises of carousing so no one would hear him

until it was too late.

I halted before her. She stood, her face blanching. Her lips were painted with

carmine but not enough to disguise a small ugly sore at the corner of her mouth. The

ladies around her gasped and drew back. It gratified me that I still commanded a level

of respect.

“You where something that does not belong to you,” I said.

She gaped at me. “Your Highness?”

“That brooch, it is mine. So are the gown and pearls. You will return them to me.

Now.”

“Now?” Her voice was unpleasant, a shrill squawk, though perhaps this was due

to her astonishment at my request.

“Yes,” I took a step closer. “Or would you rather I took them from you,

madame?”

Her eyes widened. Then her mouth pursed in a knot and she spat: “I‟ll do no such

thing. These are a gift from His―”

I didn‟t let her finish. I lunged at her and grabbed hold of the brooch, tearing it

with a audible rip of silk from her bodice. She screamed, tumbling backward over her

chair in a flurry of skirts. I grabbed hold of her by the hair, seeking the pearls. A

clump of hair tore out in my hand. I looked at it, looked down at her. She was on her

knees, scrambling to get away. I leaned over and seized another fistful of her hair,

yanking her back. She fell face-up, her white stockinged legs splayed, her mouth

letting out an incessant hysterical noise.

I gripped the pearls and twisted. Her scream became a choked cry as the pearls

snarled about her neck. Then the clasp gave way and I held them in tangled length,

adorned with errant gold wisps of hair. A thrill went through me when I saw the

bruise blooming about her throat. She threw her arms over her head, gasping as if she

couldn‟t get enough air. None of the ladies who only moments before had been

fawning on her moved. They stood open-mouthed, aghast, like painted petrified

statues.

I heard thunderous footsteps charge behind me. I turned to stare into Philip‟s

bloodshot eyes. At his side, Don Manuel glared at me like a troll in a children‟s fable.

“Never again,” I said to him. “I will die before I do anything you want again.”

He bellowed, “Guards!” and the yeomen behind him pushed past the now-silent

horrified ranks of staring courtiers. “Take her. Lock her in her rooms. She‟s insane!”

I wrapped the pearls about my wrist as the guards surrounded me.

――――――――――――

Two weeks later, word came to Flanders. My mother was dead.

――――――――――――――――――――――――

TWENTY-TWO

rincesa? Princesa,
they are here. They await you in your presence

chamber.”

“P
I knelt on the prie-dieu. I had not spoken in days. I had not

cried or crumbled into sleep. When Beatriz with tears in her eyes,

handed me my father‟s letter, a brief but tender missive that

promised to send further news through embassy, I went into my bedchamber and

closed the door. There in the darkness I prayed for my mother‟s soul to rise far from

this world.

“Go, Mamá,” I whispered. “Do not look back.”

The guards posted outside my apartment doors were dismissed, the illusion of my

liberty restored. Then Philip came to see me. Though news of my mother‟s death had

plunged most of Europe into mourning, for she‟d earned the respect of her fellow

sovereigns if nothing else, he staggered in half-flown with wine. I lay rigid in the bed, hearing his lurch across the dark room, Beatriz gasp as he kicked her awake on her

truckle bed and ordered her out, followed by the shedding of his clothes and fumbling

under the covers.

When I felt his hands on my thighs, pushing my nightshift up and parting my legs,

it was all I could do not to scream in rage and revulsion. I loathed his touch now, the

very smell and feel of him, when once he‟d been all I ever wanted. I could not stop

him, though. He would hurt me again if I tried to resist and I‟d not give him the

satisfaction. He came night after night, and I shut my eyes, fleeing my body as he

thrust inside me. After he spent himself, he sauntered out proudly and I rose from

bed to scrub myself with a cloth, wishing Doña Ana were still with me, for she‟d have

known the secret herb lore that could prevent conception.

His nocturnal visits were intentional, of course. I had no doubt Don Manuel had

advised him to it. They wanted me with child. That way, I‟d be more vulnerable to

whatever they planned for me. Indeed, Don Manuel had the temerity to visit me by

day, ostensibly to inquire if I needed anything during this time of grief, while eyeing

me for a telltale pallor or sign of queasiness.

I ignored his blandishments, staring past him to the wall. Though the guards

might be gone, the prison remained, and it was more effective than any locked door.

Already, I knew I had conceived.

Day after day I rose at dawn, forced myself to swallow the breakfast Beatriz

brought, and went to the prie-dieu, where I remained until dusk, motionless and

alone.

In those hours of solitude, I relived my past. I saw again that innocent girl

entranced by the bats and recalled how my mother had seemed a near-divine being, so

aloof I could never offer her something as fallible as love. I traveled again to Flanders, France and back to Spain. I stood on the docks of Laredo and felt the reconciliation

of a final farewell. I did not shed a single tear.

Beatriz now stepped to me. “
Princesa
, they bring news of His Majesty, your

father.”

Papá.

I turned to her. “Is it my father‟s embassy?”

She nodded. “His Highness met with them before he departed for a meeting with

his Estates-General. One of them was granted permission to see you. The others

returned to Spain.” She paused. “It is Lopez. Will you receive him?”

Lopez: my mother‟s secretary, whom I‟d last seen at La Mora. Why was he here?

I rose on stiff legs. As I passed my mirror, I avoided the shiver in the glass. I went

out into my main chamber and sat on my upholstered chair. I pulled my veil over my

face. The curtains at the windows were drawn, filling the room with shadows.

Lopez entered, accompanied by Don Manuel. My chest tightened when I saw

how old my mother‟s devoted secretary had grown, his spine bowed as if by some

inner grief. Recalling my harsh words to him in Spain, I gave a tentative nod. I did

not want my past behavior to ruin our dealings now, not in front of Don Manuel.

“My lord,” I said to Lopez, “a terrible hour brings you here, but I am glad of

you.”

He inclined his head. “Your Majesty,” he said and a jolt went through me. “Your

Majesty, I offer you my sincere condolences.”

I swallowed, glanced at Don Manuel. He stared at me, a smug smile lurking just

behind his thick lips. This creature of my husband‟s was enjoying this farce.

“Please,” I said softly, “you mustn‟t address me thus. I am still your princess, as

I‟ve not yet been sworn in by the Cortes and thus cannot receive the reverence given

to my late mother.”

This, I noted in satisfaction, wiped the smile off that gloating toad‟s face.

“Forgive me,” Lopez said. “I‟ve no desire to further distress you,
princesa
.”

I experienced a sense of abrupt peril. “You do not. As difficult as my loss is, I‟ve

every intention of fulfilling my duties. I understand you bring word of my father?”

“Yes, of course,” Lopez reached into his doublet and withdrew a small velvet box.

At that instant, I remembered my mother had entrusted Lopez with her codicil. This

must be why my father had sent him. Papá knew he would not betray me.

Lopez knelt at my feet and lifted the box. “Your Highness, the Cortes of Toledo

and His Majesty King Fernando order me to present you with the official signet ring

of Castile. They ask that you make haste to Spain so you can be invested and crowned

as sovereign queen.”

His declaration rang out with hollow impact. I took the box from him, opened it

to find the chipped ruby ring that I had last seen on my mother‟s hand. My throat

closed. I could not move for what seemed an eternity, staring at that dull stone with