The Last Queen (8 page)

their expressions hard with anger that they‟d not been offered so much as a room to

rest in.

I resisted the urge to pull off the veil. Castilian tradition decreed only her husband

could unveil a royal bride. I thought it absurd, echoing the Moor‟s habit of immuring

their women, and I stood rigid as a sculpture when Margaret declared, “Such a lovely

gown. And the ruby is gorgeous, my dear. May I present a few members of our court?

They‟re most eager to pay their respects.”

I nodded, starting slightly when the archduchess leaned to me and whispered, “All

of this ceremony is frightfully tedious, my dear, but they simply refuse to heed reason.

We can only hope they‟ll make their speeches brief so you can sup in peace.”

Not knowing what to say, I inclined my head as the archduchess introduced the

nobles, as well as Margaret‟s former governess and matron, Madame de Halewin, a

gaunt woman in jade silk. Most of the names flew from my head the moment they

were uttered; I had an overall impression of well-fed sleekness and appraising eyes

before a corpulent man in crimson robes strode into the room, his fleshy face

beaming.

“His Eminence, the archbishop of Besançon, Lord Chancellor,” pronounced

Margaret.

The Spanish company bowed in deference to the authority of the church.

Besançon was the highest ecclesiastic in Flanders, his position equal to that of

Cisneros in Spain. He was also the man whose postscript had displeased my mother.

As I started to curtsy, he shot out a fat ring-laden hand, detaining me.

“
Mais non,
madame. It is I who should bow to you.” He did not bow, however; his

head tilted at an angle before he turned his keen stare to Margaret and issued a curt

babble of Flemish.

I looked in puzzlement at the archduchess. With a reddening of her cheeks,

Margaret translated, “His Eminence wishes to know why Your Highness wears a

veil.”

“It is our custom,” interjected Doña Ana, before I could reply. “In Spain a bride

must remain hidden from all male eyes until she is wed by the church.”

I spied the pinch in Besançon‟s mouth, belying his jocular smile. With a swift

upsweep of my hand, I removed the offending cloth.

Silence fell. Then Besançon cried, “
Trés belle!
” and as if on cue, the Flemish broke into applause. With a wave of his hand, the archbishop sent two pages speeding from

the chamber.

Doña Ana rumbled forth: “This is an outrage! How dare he distain your privacy?”

“He did not distain it,” I said to her, between my teeth. “I did. I‟ll not have him

question my suitability. And it seems I have pleased.”

Doña Ana snapped, “He is no one to question! He‟s but a―”

The tromping of footsteps spun her around. While the Flemish grinned and the

archduchess Margaret released a bray of laughter, the footsteps grew louder, coming

closer and closer.

Besançon‟s pages ran back into the chamber and bowed to the floor.

A tall young man strode in.

He wore a leather jerkin fitted to his chest, his long legs encased in cordovan

boots. As he whipped off his cap, he unleashed a wave of gold-auburn hair that fell to

his shoulders. His prominent jaw, aquiline nose, and generous mouth were highlighted

by close-set blue eyes that mirrored Margaret‟s, as did his unblemished white skin.

A slow smile curved his full lips.

I didn‟t need anyone to tell me who he was. There could be no doubt. This was

the prince his subjects had dubbed Philip the Fair, and he was indeed that― the fairest

man I‟d seen, his beauty almost too perfect yet without a hint of femininity, like that

of a bold young stag.

I felt a discomfiting sensation. He stood in the stunned silence with gloved hands

on his hips, studying me as if I were the only person in the room, his gaze intent on

my face before it trailed to my breast, where it lingered, as if he espied my quickening

pulse. It was an outrageous brazen look, and yet to my confusion, I found it flattering.

No man in Spain would ever dare to look upon me, a woman of royal blood, like this.

I knew I should retrieve my crumpled veil but the candid approval in his gaze made

my insides turn liquid warm.

Like his minister Besançon, Philip of Habsburg obviously liked what he saw.

“His Highness the archduke,” said Archbishop Besançon with pompous

redundancy, seeing as everyone had dropped to obeisance.

Philip yanked off his gauntlets and came to me. He seized my hand, raised it to his

lips. His pungent scent teased my senses, a heady brew of sweat and horse, spiced

with an unknown salty tang I had sometimes smelled on my father.

“
Bienvenue, ma petite infanta,
” he said in a low voice. I glanced at the hand holding mine. He had lovely fingers, I thought in a haze, strong, tapered, without any visible

scars. Those hands had probably never held anything more demanding than a hunting

bow or sword.

I summoned a tremulous smile. Was this magnificent youth to be my husband? It

seemed impossible. I‟d prepared to tolerate him at best, disdain him at worst. I had

anticipated a marriage without passion, an al iance of state for the good of Spain. I

had even thought I might hate him. I never before imagined he might stir any sort of

feeling in me. But this was unlike anything I had felt before, an explicable sensation

like butterflies dancing in my veins.

I realized with a start that he waited for me to speak. I managed to murmur, “My

lord honors me,” and he gave a soft chuckles before turning to the assembly with an

expansive smile. “I am delighted with my Spanish bride. We shall marry at once!”

His declaration rippled like catastrophe through my ranks. Doña Ana swayed as if

she were about to swoon; the other matrons glowered. Even Beatriz looked

discomforted. With a high-pitched laugh, Margaret said, “Brother dear, must you be

so impatient? She has only just arrived here, after an exhausting voyage. Perhaps you

might greet her entourage first?”

Philip waved his hand. “Yes, yes.” He didn‟t relinquish his hold on me as the

members of my household stepped to him. Pulling myself to attention, I introduced

them by name, as Margaret had done for me. They filed past, followed by my matrons

and ladies. I heard his boot tap, tap, tapping on the carpet. Not until the clergy‟s turn came did he display sudden interest.

“My professor of theology, the bishop of Jaén―”

“Bishop?” interrupted Philip. “As in ordained by the church?”

The elderly bishop paused. “Yes, Your Highness. I am ordained.”

“Splendid! Then you can marry us.”

“I―” The bishop glanced at me. “Your Highness, I fear I cannot.”

“Why not? Is there something wrong with your mouth, perhaps, that you can‟t

recite a few vows?” Philip turned to me. “Is there something wrong with him, my

sweet?”

There were flecks of white in the azure of his irises, like diamond shards. And he

had the longest lashes I‟d seen on a man, so fair they seemed spun of white-gold.

“Well?” he said. Laughter rustled low in his throat. “Is there something wrong

with him?”

I blurted, “No, my lord. But it‟s not fitting we should wed before―”

“Never mind that. Besançon!” The Flemish archbishop bustled forth. “Is there

any reason the infanta and I should not be wed here and now?”

Besançon chortled. “None. You need only repeat the vows in person to sanctify

your union. Under canon law, Your Highnesses are already husband and wife.”

Philip cupped my chin. “Can you think of any reason?”

Doña Ana cried, “By her honor, Her Highness must be wed by the church!”

He didn‟t glance at her. He stared at me as if he could compel me to his will, and

quite to my disconcertion I found myself wanting to oblige. It was impulsive,

scandalous even, for of course there were several reasons why we shouldn‟t wed like

this, the primary one being that even such events were supposed to be protracted

affairs celebrated with pomp. Now, at the age of sixteen, I faced my first decision as a

woman, independent of rank or protocol; and all of a sudden I thought that nothing

about this marriage made any sense. I didn‟t know Philip and yet I‟d been sent all this

way to become his wife. Whether it happened today or next week, what could it

matter?

“I see no reason, my lord,” I finally said, and as Doña Ana groaned in dismay, I

motioned to the bishop of Jaén. “My lord, if you wouldn‟t mind?”

He dared not refuse me. “A Bible,” he quavered. “I must have a Bible.”

Besançon produced the tome with premeditated haste. Glowering, my retinue

knelt beside their Flemish counterparts. The archduchess Margaret joined the other

ladies.

There in that antechamber, without incense or altar, I married Philip of Habsburg.

“May none tear asunder those whom God hath joined.,” concluded the bishop,

and Philip bent to me and put his lips on mine. My first kiss; he tasted of wine. It

wasn‟t unpleasant.

He drew back and with a triumphant grin said, “Now, to the feast!”

_________________

AS SOON AS WE entered the hall, I realized advance preparation had been

expended on this banquet.

Trestle tables stretched the hall‟s length to a canopied dais, where Philip and I

took our seats. Musicians struck up a refrain. Servitors entered, carrying backed boars‟

heads stuffed with caramelized pears; winter peacocks sautéed in hippocras; glazed

honeyed herons; haunches of cinnamon-roasted venison; and myriad unrecognizable

dishes smothered in creamy sauces. I ventured an inquiring look at Philip, as each

coarse was set before me. He recited the corresponding platter‟s name in French. I

smiled, feigning understanding.

Throughout the feast, I couldn‟t help staring at him. I searched for but failed to

find any arrogance beyond what was normal to his rank, none of the callousness or

spoiled petulance I could expect from an heir to an empire. He was attentive,

solicitous, as a well-bred prince should be. It wasn‟t until the desserts were finally

served that he whispered, “You haven‟t recognized a thing you‟ve eaten tonight, have

you,
ma
petite?
”

“No,” I told him, “But I‟ve had poultry before, my lord. I do know its taste.”

“Do you?” He forked a piece of roast flesh from his silver plate and raised it to

my lips. I glanced around, wishing we weren‟t so visible to the Flemish courtiers

seated below us, several of whom were staring, smiling and nudging each other as if

they knew something they did not.

I took the fork from him. “Delicious,” I pronounced. “I believe it is quail, yes?”

He let out a hearty laugh. Then I felt his hand slip under the table to rest on my

thigh. I went still. It took a moment for me to identify my fear. He touched me as if I

were a prized possession, a favorite hound or hawk. I understood then that I was his

now, to do with as he wished. I‟d surrendered whatever little freedom I‟d enjoyed as a

infanta to become the archduchess of Flanders, Philip of Habsburg‟s wife.

I regretted not having stood my ground earlier. I knew, of course, what was

expected of a bride on her wedding night, in general if not specifics. I hadn‟t stopped

to consider this was, in fact,
my
wedding night. Was I prepared to give myself to a stranger? Unlike me, I doubted he was a novice when it came to such matters. Men

rarely were. I should have insisted we wait until a proper ceremony was arranged; I

should have pleaded exhaustion or another indisposition.

Yet even as I thought this, I knew I deluded myself. I had agreed because I

wanted to, because I had seen a challenge in him I could not resist.

I reached for my goblet. Philip took up his at the same time. His gesture conveyed

what he did not say, and so intense was the way he looked at me that after we drank

together Margaret leaned from her place at my left side to whisper in my ear, “You

mustn‟t worry, my dear. My brother is like any man, but you‟ll have your cathedral

wedding. My lord Besançon won‟t be deprived of the opportunity to show you to the

people. He considers our alliance with Spain his greatest achievement to date. Indeed,

I‟m surprised he hasn‟t sent me packing my coffers this very night, so he can see me

off all the quicker to your brother‟s bed.”

I glanced past Philip at the archbishop. He nodded as Philip murmured to him

but seemed more interested in his food, eating with his hands like a serf. I thought

there was something unpleasant about the prelate but I was grateful for Margaret‟s

reassurance. Perhaps now would be the time to tell her about my brother and his

many princely accomplishments.

Instead, I felt Philip take my hand and draw me to my feet. “Play a bass dance,”

he called to the musicians as he led me to the floor. “A Flemish bass dance to

celebrate my marriage.”

His court yelled their approval, banging goblets on the tables, causing cutlery and

trenchers to jump. My entourages‟ brows arched even higher; I could practically feel

their stares boring into me. To them, my wedding ceremony had been a farce. I

shouldn‟t be here. I should be in virginal isolation with my women until I was wed by

the church, with all the requisite trappings.

All thought of extolling Juan‟s virtues fled my mind. Surely, I couldn‟t dance with