The Last Queen (6 page)

Papá, I will do it. For Spain, I will marry him.”

“Madrecita,”
he murmured and he kissed my lips. “You give me great pride this

day.”

_________________

WHEN WE ENTERED THE SOLAR, my mother glanced up from her chair. Isabella

and Maria sewed nearby; at their feet, Catalina dangled yarns over the batting paws of

a calico kitten.

My mother said, “There you are. Did you have a nice walk? Come join us, Juana.

Your father hasn‟t had a chance to bathe or change his clothes yet. Let us leave him to

his squire. We‟ll dine together later in my rooms as a family, yes?”

I nodded and went to a chair. Picking up my embroidery hoop, I began to thread

my needle when Isabella bent to me and hissed, “Well? Are you going to marry him or

not?

“Yes I am,” I hissed back. “And I don‟t want to hear another word about it till my

wedding.”

__________________________________

he bells of Valladolid clanged in unison, echoing into the brooding sky and

ringing in my betrothal day. In my apartments in the
casa real
, I plucked at

T my white skirts, surrounded by ladies as I waited for my escort, the stalwart

and handsome Don Fadriqué, admiral of Castile, who‟d fought for my mother at her

accession and been one of her most devoted supporters.

“I‟m going to be late,” I said, rising from my chair.

Doña Francisca de Ayala, one of my matrons of honor scheduled to travel with

me to Flanders, replied, “His Excellency the admiral will be here soon enough,

although if Your Highness doesn‟t sit still, the gown will be hopelessly wrinkled by

then.”

I curbed my retort. This wasn‟t a day to wield my temper. Today I was to be

formally betrothed by proxy; joined by holy vows, at least on paper, to a man I had

never met.

Philip was not here. My mother had informed me that a prince never fetched his

bride, particularly as the royal wife― unless a sovereign queen― must live in her

husband‟s country. All the same, I didn‟t like it. What kind of man didn‟t even attend

his own betrothal ceremony?

I didn‟t dwell on it however. I wanted to get through the ceremony without

mishap. Turning from Doña Francisca, I beckoned to the young auburn-haired

woman sitting on the window seat. “Beatriz, would you come loosen my stays? I feel

like a trussed hen.”

With a smile, Beatriz de Talavera came to me.

I‟d taken to her the moment she was appointed to my service, the only one of my

new attendants I felt any affinity toward. Younger than me by a year, Beatrix had a

disposition that matched her lively looks, her dark eyes framed by curling lashes, her

figure lithe and graceful. Born the niece of the Marquise de Moya, my mother‟s

intimate head lady, Beatriz possessed all the requisite blood and skills of a royal lady-

in-waiting, and a healthy wit most of these women lacked.

With nimble fingers, she loosened the stays. “Does that feel better,
mi princesa?
”

I leaned close. “It‟s not as if that fat old Flemish my husband sent as his proxy

will care either way. Unless one happens to be a barrel of beer, he seems most

oblivious.”

Beatriz chuckled, turning me to the mirror. “Never-the-less, I vow the fat old

Flemish has never seen a more beautiful bride.”

I hadn‟t looked at myself yet, despite the hours others had spent primping and

dressing me in my elaborate costume. Now I gazed in awe at my slim figure in its

pearl encrusted bodice, scalloped sleeves, and silver damask overskirt. About my

throat I wore a large ruby given to me by my mother, one of the few jewels she hadn‟t

sold or pawned to finance her wars. Yards of silvery veiling drifted from my coif;

within this excess, my face shone pale as a bone. To denote my virginity, my hair

tumbled to my shoulders, a recent wash of ash and henna coloring it sinfully red.

“Blessed saints,” I whispered. “I hardly recognize myself.”

“Neither will the Flemish. He‟ll think the Virgin herself has descended from

heaven.”

“Then maybe if he thinks I‟m the Virgin, he‟ll not make the same mistake our

envoy did in Flanders during my brother‟s proxy wedding.”

We giggled, recalling how the Spanish ambassador in Brussels had, during the

symbolic laying of his bare leg over the archduchess Margaret, unfastened the wrong

button on his hose and exposed himself to the Flemish court. The laughter helped

ease my nerves, and I offered Doña Ana a smile when she bustled in moments later,

plump as a partridge in her new velvets.

“His Excellency is coming down the corridor. Hurry, ladies, to your feet. Beatriz,

cover the infanta‟s face with her veil and join the others.”

Beatriz curtsied, though she couldn‟t stop her giggle when she saw me wink.

_________________

THE CEREMONY WAS interminable. As Archbishop Cisneros intoned High Mass, I

felt myself collapsing before the altar like a cake in the sun, impaled by my finery, my

headdress so heavy I marveled my spine didn‟t snap under its weight. As he escorted

me here, the admiral had told me I looked lovely and I preened under his gentle gaze,

steadfast manner, and lean, imposing height, which had set many a woman at court to

sighs. But now all I felt was miserable and tired. All I wanted to do was take off these

clothes and soak in a hot bath.

Beside me, the Flemish envoy‟s ale-saturated breath rasped. Incense billowed

from the braziers, coalescing with the candles and votive smoke and the musk of

nobles, courtiers, and envoys crammed into the pews. In their royal pew, my parents

sat stiff as effigies.

Finally Cisneros spoke the long-awaited vows. I choked back sudden laughter

when the envoy repeated in his dreadful accent: “I, Philip of Habsburg, archduke of

Burgundy and Flanders, take thee, Juana, infanta of Castile and the Indies, as my

wife―”

When my turn came, I reversed the ridiculous array of titles: “I, Juana, royal

infanta of Castile and the Indies, take thee, Philip, archduke of Burgundy―”

Thus with a few meaningless words, I was formally betrothed to the archduke

Philip.

_________________

WINTER ROARED IN LIKE A BEAST. Icy storms turned the skies black and coated

the roads with frost, even as my mother traveled from one end of Castile to the other,

dragging us with her.

She did not rest for a moment, nor did she allow me to. New duties were added

to my already mind-numbing schedule, along with fittings for my trousseau and

evening lectures on al the diplomatic issues I was expected to influence at Philip‟s

court, the foremost of which was to never let him sign treaties with, negotiate with, or

otherwise show any favor to France. Exactly how I was supposed to do this, my

mother didn‟t explain, but it wouldn‟t have mattered if she had. Though I had

resolved to do my duty, I still took to pummeling my pillows at night, loathing this

marriage that seemed nothing more than a political stratagem.

Soon after the feast of the Magi on January 6, word came that my maternal

grandmother, the dowager queen, had fallen gravely ill. Defying the hellish weather,

my mother rode straight to Avila in central Castile, accompanied by the Marquise de

Moya and to my surprise, me.

I hadn‟t seen my grandmother since my early childhood; none of my siblings had.

She had been twenty-three years old when her husband, my mother‟s father, King

Juan, died, and had been obliged to retire from court, as befitted a widow. In the

ensuing years, she succumbed to a grief-induced illness of the mind, eventually

coming so debilitated she could not travel or abide the presence of strangers. For

forty-two years, she had dwelled in Arévalo; to me, it was as if she had died long ago.

I did not understand my explanation that as I would soon leave for Flanders, I had to

bid my grandmother farewell. Surely if she were too ill to leave Arévalo she‟d hardly

remember a granddaughter she‟d met once during a familial visit years ago. I certainly

didn‟t recall much of her. I had only an obscure memory of distant eyes staring at me,

and a spectral hand that reached out, ever so briefly, to caress my hair.

Peering through the snow-flecked wind, I caught sight of Arévalo like a lone

bulwark on the plain, stark as the land surrounding it. The castle custodian and his

portly wife hurried out to welcome us and hustle us into the
sala.
My mother went straight to consult with the physicians she‟d sent ahead. Left alone, I accepted a goblet of warm cider and moved through the hall.

Woven rugs covered the plank floor, the furnishings of sturdy yew and oak.

Wrought-iron candelabra illumined faded tapestries, their once-vibrant wool drained

from years of light and dust. Though hardly luxurious by court standards, the castle

seemed comfortable enough for one old woman and a handful of servants.

“I remember this hall well,” the marquise said from behind me. “Her Majesty and

I used to play here when we were girls, pretending we were captive damsels waiting to

be rescued.”

I‟d forgotten that in their childhood, my mother and the marquise had lived in

Arévalo with my grandmother. I could no more imagine my mother as a girl than I

could the staid marquise, and I murmured, “It must have been lonely,” for lack of

anything else to say.

“Oh, it was,” she replied. “Fortunately Her Majesty and I had each other. We

made up games, sewed together, and went riding. It was lovely in the summer,

especially in fair weather, but the winter―
brrr!
It was miserable, just like today. You could see your own breath.”

A fire burned in the hearth, and braziers were scattered throughout the hall.

Wrapped in my fleece-lined cloak, I didn‟t feel any chill, and yet a shiver went through

me. I could imagine the cold night wind seeping through every window and wall

crevice, whistling down the corridors like a phantom. What had my grandmother

done during those long bitter nights? Had she roamed the twisting passages with the

wind, plagued by the penury and helplessness of a widowed queen? Or had she

floated alone, forgotten, already caught up in her own inner labyrinth?

As if she could read my thoughts, the marquise said softly. “You mustn‟t fear. Her

Grace the dowager is old and ill. She will do you no harm.”

I frowned. “I do not fear―” I stopped when I saw my mother motion from the

staircase.

“Your grandmother is upstairs,” said the marquise. “You will meet with her

there.”

_________________

THE CHAMBER WAS DARK. Pausing on the threshold, I waited for my eyes to

adjust while my mother strode in without pause, striking flint and lighting candles. A

web of light flickered and spread. “Juana,” she said, “come in and shut that door. I

can feel a draft.”

Steeling myself against an inexplicable thrill of fear, I stepped into the room.

In the interplay of shadow and light, I saw an old loom in the corner, a table and

chairs, and a dilapidated throne. I‟d expected a sickroom cluttered with medicine and

the stench of illness, and I turned in relief to where my mother stood by the bed.

The moment lengthened. She stood in absolute silence, looking down at an

almost indistinguishable figure under a mound of covers. Then I heard her say,

“Mamá?”

It was a voice unlike any I‟d heard from her before, little more than a sigh and

laden with a profound silence. Then she looked up at me, and with her hand

beckoned me forward.

I moved to the bedside. I stood still.

Only my grandmother‟s head and upper torso were visible, propped on pillows.

Strands of colorless hair fel to a sunken chest without any visible breath. The bones

of her face seemed etched under a waxen mold; her bruised eyelids closed. She looked

so still, so insubstantial, I thought she must be dead. I forced myself to take a step

closer., Something unheard, perhaps the brush of my fingers against the tester curtain

or click of heel, awoke her. Eyes the hue of a frozen sea slowly opened, riveting me

with their glassy stare. Her parched mouth moved, in a barely audible whisper:
“Eres

mi alma.”

You are my soul.

“No,” said my mother. “It‟s Juana, Mamá. It‟s your granddaughter.” She added in

a low voice to me, “
Hija,
come into the light. Let her see you.”

I started around the bed, my name crawling as my grandmother swiveled her head

to me. I fought the urge to look away. I did not want to meet that probing gaze, did

not want to see whatever horrors lurked there.

Then her frail voice reached me. as if from across an abyss. “Why are you afraid?”

I lifted my gaze. The pounding in my chest dissolved.

Never had I beheld such unspeakable anguish. In my grandmother‟s eyes, I saw

the toll of an eternal night, of a solitude that had ravaged without succor or release.

Forced to suffer isolation no mortal being should endure, she now begged with her

eyes for mercy, a swift end to an existence that had ceased to hold any meaning.

I dropped to my knees, fumbled under the furs. The hand I enclosed in mine felt

brittle as a desiccated leaf. There were no more words. The dowager queen sighed.

Her eyes closed in fitful sleep. After a long moment, I released her hand and stood. I