The Last Queen (38 page)

was so ridiculous I would not have believed it had I not seen it for myself.

Beatriz cried out, “We must pray for safe passage to the nearest port!”

“That would be England,” I said. “But not to fret. I‟ve never heard of a king who

drowned.”

I must confess that had we sunk that day, I would have gone down a happy

woman.

――――――――――――

BATTERED AND WITH SEVERAL SHIPS LOST, we landed on the coast of Essex,

where the local gentry made haste to accommodate us, surrendering for our use a

small manor. Word was sent to King Henry VII. Two days later, I awoke to find that

my husband, Don Manuel, and the majority of the Flemish suite had gone, leaving me

behind with my few servants.

“Gone?” I cried feverishly to Philip‟s sneezing chamberlain, who, like most of the

Flemish, had caught a nasty ague. “Where did they go? Tell me this instant.”

The chamberlain was in no position to deny me. He had seen my bravura on

board during the storm and probably believed I was indeed was mad as Philip

claimed. “To court,” he muttered miserably. “Word came from His Majesty of

England that he would receive them.”

“Receive
us
, you mean,” I retorted, and I stormed back to my rooms. With the

fleet dry-docked for repairs, it could be days, weeks even, before we were ready to set

sail again and I was not about to sit here twiddling my thumbs while Philip and Don

Manuel created God knew what mischief with the Tudor. I was the queen of Spain

and my sister Catalina had lived in England for several years, having been betrothed

anew to her late husband‟s brother, Prince Henry. Her position here would make

ignoring me quite difficult. I was eager to see my sister again after so many years, and

wasn‟t going to let the chance slip me by.

While my women set themselves to countering the pervasive damp by lighting

braziers all around the room we shared and countering the boredom by airing any

gowns they could salvage form my waterlogged coffers, I set the sparrow in a cage by

the window and sat at the table to write a letter. When I was done, I handed it to

Soraya, along with a few gold coins. “Find someone to deliver this to court.” I looked

at Beatriz as Soraya hurried out. “Either they send an escort or I‟ll go to them. It‟s

their choice.”

Three days later, a missive came. I expected an official invitation; instead, to my

surprise, it was from my sister, just a few lines, but enough to raise the hair on my

nape.

“What does she say?” Beatriz asked anxiously, Soraya looking on.

“She wants me to come to Windsor Castle in secret,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”

――――――――――――

A SLASH OF LIGHTNING ILLUMINED THE STONE PILE OF WINDSOR CASTLE,

perched atop a forested hill like a massive toadstool.

The messenger who‟d brought Catalina‟s letter guided us on our horses into a

cobblestone courtyard. After we dismounted, we were lead into the castle proper,

traversing several galleries before the messenger passed at a brass-studded door.

Within, we found a spacious chamber furnished with oak chairs, a table, various

painted coffers, and an upholstered bench before the hearth. The hearth was huge,

built right into the wall, the snapping fire in its depth casting more gloom than light. I glimpsed another door in the far wainscoting, leading into what I assumed were the

bedchamber and privy. A velvet curtain glittering with embroidered stars partially

covered an embrasure. This was a privileged person‟s suite.

I turned to ask the messenger if my sister would meet us here. But he had

vanished, closing the door and leaving Beatriz and me alone.

I unclasped my cloak. “I can‟t believe we actually made it here without being

noticed,” I said uneasily as I moved to the hearth. “Surely, if nothing else, Philip set

someone to watch me. Maybe the letter was a ruse, to get me here without ceremony,

though I can‟t imagine why.”

“Neither can I―” said Beatriz, and then she let out a gasp.

A figure stepped from behind the curtain into the light― a small woman dressed

in a gown without rustle or sheen, her coiffed head bowed. I understood Beatriz‟s

reaction. The woman bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother, down to the

glimmer of gold hair under her hood.

As I struggled for my voice, the woman dropped into a curtsy.

“
Su Majestad,
” she uttered. She lifted her face. In the muted glow of the hearth, ethereal blue eyes shone at me like a forgotten memory.

With a muffled cry, I went and embraced her, kissing my sister‟s cheeks, her

mouth and nose, my tears overflowing. When I finally drew back, I found myself

staring straight into Catalina‟s somber gaze.

“They know you are here,” she said glancing to the door. “My messenger is one

of the few trusted servants I have left. Unfortunately, we‟ve little time.”

“They?” I stared. I could not reconcile this staid, stalwart woman with the pretty

laughing child I had last seen in Spain.

“His Grace King Henry and your husband,” she said. “The archduke told the king

you‟d taken ill from the voyage, but then your letter came and no one knew what to

do. I found out and discovered where you were lodged. I feared you might not

come.”

“I see,” I said, though I seethed. Of course Philip had told Henry Tudor I was ill.

He‟d do anything he could to keep me away from this court, which meant he was up

to no good.

Catalina went on, “If they ask, you must tell them you decided to come on your

own. Don‟t let them know I wrote to you, whatever you do. I have so few confidants

these days. I wouldn‟t want those who serve me to come under suspicion for relaying

news not meant for my ears.”

I nodded. There were sunken circles about her eyes, thin lines at the corners of

her pale mouth. She was not yet twenty-three and she looked her age. What had

happened to her.

“Catalina,” I said, reaching for her hands, “you speak as if you were in danger.

Why?”

She looked away. I brought her to the bench before the hearth. Without my

needing to tell her a word, Beatriz went to stand vigil at the door.

Catalina let go of my hand; I saw in the light that her fingers were reddened,

chafed by chilblains. I knew then that wherever she lived, this was not her room. Her

gown too looked threadbare. It was evident she did not thrive in England. Indeed, her

hands were those of a common charwoman, not the cherished future queen of the

Tudor heir.

I bit back my fury. “You must tell me who has done this to you.”

“The king.” Her voice was low, hesitant. “He has forbidden me from coming to

court, but I disobeyed him.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I had to. You are the only

one who can help me.”

“But I don‟t understand,
pequenita
. Are you not betrothed to Prince Henry? Why

would he forbid you from coming to court?”

Her smile was unrevealing. I thought with a pang that she had our mother‟s smile,

gracious, yet remote. She reached into her gown pocket, withdrew a paper. “Mamá

wrote this to me before she died. Perhaps you should read it. It will explain my

circumstances better than I can.”

For a moment, I could not move. The entire room seemed to darken at its edges,

crouch in around me. I took the letter, shifted so that the firelight fell on the page.

The parchment was worn, indicating Catalina had been carrying it with her.

Undated, lacking salutation and seal, my mother‟s painfully familiar handwriting raced

across the page without interruption, a fervent outpouring of her thoughts engraved

in fading ink.

I breathed deep.

I write to you on the eve of my death; and my desire to go unto God is marred

only by my concern for those I must leave behind. You cannot know, being so far

away, how much I suffer for you in this trying time. You must be strong,
hija mia,
stronger than you’ve ever been. The dispensation has finally been sent from Rome

and should reach England by the time you receive this letter. You can rejoice in

knowing that His Holiness has decreed the affinity between you and Prince Henry

valid, as your marriage to Arthur was never consummated. Only the most evil of

men would dare dispute your maidenhood now. I cannot be here to protect you, but

God is with you always, and justice shall prevail. I pray that you will have no

further need for succor, but should it come to pass that the dispensation is not

sufficient, you must rely on Juana. I shall write to her as I write to you, asking her
to use her power as queen of Castile to coerce the Tudor, if necessary, into

honoring your betrothal. I know she loves you dearly and will not forsake you. As

for myself, I carry your in my heart always, and from that glorious place where we

all must go, I shall watch over you and guide you with my spirit.

Your devoted mother,

Isabel

The letter crinkled in my trembling hands. I looked at Catalina. “I never received

it,” I whispered. “I never received her letter.”

“It must have gotten lost. Mine took nearly two months after her death to arrive.”

“It was not lost.” I checked my sudden fury. I had to focus on Catalina now.

Time enough there would be to exact revenge on that miscreant Don Manuel, who

had kept my mother‟s last letter from me. “Tell me why the king refuses to honor

your betrothal to the prince. I must know everything if I am to help you.”

In a flat voice, she said, “You remember Prince Arthur died a fortnight after our

marriage? Well during my widowhood, King Henry‟s queen, Elizabeth, brought me to

live at court. She was very kind, and when my period of mourning ended she suggest

Prince Henry and I be betrothed. His Grace agreed. She wrote to Mamá, and she

initiated negotiations to obtain a dispensation from Rome, as Henry is my brother-in-

law. I swore before witnesses that Arthur and I never consummated our marriage, and

no one thought we‟d be denied.”

She paused. His hands bunched in her lap, just as they had in times of frustration

in the classroom, when she couldn‟t master a particularly trying lesson. Like me, she

did not suffer failure gladly. “Then Queen Elizabeth died in childbed. His Grace was

beside himself with grief, as were wee all, for she was a gracious and loving woman.

Still, His Grace assured me that his council would ratify my and Henry‟s betrothal, as

that had been his wife‟s last desire.”

A brief smile illumined Catalina‟s drawn face. “I cannot tell you how happy it

made me, even in my mourning for the queen. Henry and I had grown fond of one

another in a way Arthur and I never did, and I began to prepare for when the

marriage would take place.”

“And then what happened?” I asked, dreading her reply.

“Mamá died,” She stated it without visible emotion, though I knew she must have

felt a deep pain inside. “Overnight, the king sent me t o live in a dower manor by the

Thames. He reduced my allowance to such an extent, I did not have money to

support my household, and many of my servants deserted me. I had to pawn my plate

for food. I wrote to His Grace every day to remonstrate, but he replied that he was

not responsible for my predicament If I was in such a dire need, he advised I ask Papá

for money. I was but a guest in England, he said, and not his ward. Then he―”

Her voice caught. “He told me the pope had sent word that my marriage to

Henry would be incestuous, as I had been wed to his brother. I repeated that on my

honor, I am virgin. Arthur and I never consummated our marriage, but he refuses to

believe me. Since that time, I‟ve learned that Rome did issue the dispensation, and the

king lied because he seeks another bride for Henry. He has left me to fend for myself.

My duenna, Doña Manuel, insisted I write to you, but when I heard you had left

Flanders for Spain, I decided to wait. I did write to Papá, however. He never replied.”

She searched my face. “He is not ill, is he?”

“No. Not that I‟m aware of.” My own voice throbbed. I wanted to tear down this

castle with my bare hands. My beautiful sister, a princess of Spain in the prime of her

youth, forced to endure penury and humiliation at the hands of an upstart Tudor,

whose lineage was bastard-sprung. And Philip had been roistering for days now, while

I‟d been left unaware. I now understood why he had snuck away, why no summons

for my presence had been issued. No one wanted Catalina and me to meet. No one

wanted me to discover the outrageous neglect she had been subjected.

I came to my feet. “Beatriz!” My lady came to us. “Tell the man outside to

prepare our mounts.” I held out my hand to Catalina. “Come,
pequeñita
. We are

leaving.”

My sister rose. A frown creased her brow. “Leaving? I think you‟ve

misunderstood. When I said I needed your help, I did not mean I wished to leave.”

I paused. “Not leave? But why on earth would you stay? You‟re not beholden to

anything here. You are infanta of Spain. I am Spain‟s queen. You can come home

with me.”

“And do what? Live at court as your spinster sister? Take holy vows and enter a

convent? Or perhaps wed the first noble who takes pity on me? I‟ve been married