History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (101 page)

When I came to a panting halt on a ridge overlooking the plain, my riding hood hung on its ribbons down my back, my light auburn hair tumbling loose from its braids. Sliding off Canela, I patted his lathered neck. He nuzzled my palm before he set himself to munching on brittle thornbushes sprouting between the rocks. I settled on a nearby pile of stones and watched Beatriz come plunging up the ridge. As she came to a stop, flushed from her exertions, I remarked, “You were right, after all. We did need the exercise.”

“Exercise!” she gasped, slipping off her horse. “Are you aware that we just left His Highness and Chacón behind in a cloud of dust?”

I smiled. “Beatriz de Bobadilla, must everything be a contest with you?”

She put her hands on her hips. “When it comes to proving our worthiness, yes. If we don’t take it upon ourselves, who will?”

“So it’s our strength you wish to prove,” I said. “Hmm. Explain this to me.” Beatriz flopped beside me, gazing toward the ebbing sun. The sun fell slowly at this time of year in Castile, affording us a breathtaking vision of gold-rimmed clouds and violet-and-scarlet skies. The incipient evening wind caught at Beatriz’s tangled black hair; her expressive eyes, so quick to show her every thought, turned wistful. “I want to prove we’re as accomplished as any man and should therefore enjoy the same privileges.”

I frowned. “Why would we ever want to do that?”

“So we can live as we see fit and not have to apologize for it, just as His Highness does.”

“Alfonso doesn’t live as he sees fit.” I righted my hood, tucking its ribbons into my bodice. “In fact, he has considerable less freedom than you think. Save for today, I hardly see him anymore, so busy is he with his rounds of swordplay, archery, and jousting, not to mention his studies. He is a prince. He has many demands on his time.”

She scowled. “Yes, important demands, not just learning to sew and churn butter and corral the sheep. If we could live as men, then we’d be free to roam the world undertaking noble quests, like a knight errant or the Maid of Orleans.”

I concealed the unbidden excitement her words roused in me. I’d schooled myself to hide my feelings ever since my mother, Alfonso, and I had fled Valladolid that terrible night ten years earlier, for since then I had come to understand far better what had occurred. We were not so isolated in Arévalo that I failed to glean the occasional news that filtered over the
meseta
from the royal residences in Madrid, Segovia, and Valladolid; the subjects were gossiped about by our servants, easy to hear if one seemed not to listen. I knew that with Enrique’s accession, the court had become a dangerous place for us, ruled by his favorites and his avaricious queen. I had never forgotten the palpable fear I’d felt that night of my father’s death; the long ride across dark fields and forests, avoiding the main roads in case Enrique sent guards in our pursuit. The memory was branded in me, an indelible lesson that life’s changes would occur whether or not we were prepared for them, and we must do our best to adapt, with a minimum of fuss.

“The Maid of Orleans was burned at the stake,” I finally said. “Is that the grand end you’d have us aspire to, my friend?”

Beatriz sighed. “Of course not, it’s a horrible death. But I’d like to think that, given the chance, we could lead armies in defense of our country as she did. As it stands, we’re doomed before we’ve ever lived.” She flung her arms wide. “It’s the same thing day after day, week after week, month after dreary month! Is this how all gentlewomen are raised, I wonder? Are we so unintelligent our sole pleasures must be to entertain guests and please our future husbands, to learn how to smile between dinner courses without ever expressing an opinion? If so, we might as well forgo the marriage and child-bearing parts altogether and proceed directly to old age and sainthood.”

I regarded her. Beatriz always asked questions for which there were no easy answers, seeking to change that which had been ordained before we were born. It disconcerted me that lately I too had found myself asking similar questions, plagued by a similar restlessness, though I would never admit to it. I didn’t like the impatience that overcame me when I looked to the future, because I knew that even I, a princess of Castile, must one day wed where I was told and settle for whatever life my husband saw fit to give me.

“It is neither tedious nor demeaning to marry, and care for a husband and children,” I said. “Such has been a woman’s lot since time began.”

“You only recite what you’ve been told,” she retorted. “ ‘Women breed and men provide.’ What I ask is: Why? Why must we have only one path? Who said a woman can’t take up the sword and cross, and march on Granada to vanquish the Moors? Who said we can’t make our own decisions or manage our own affairs as well as any man?”

“It is not a question of who said it. It simply is.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, the Maid of Orleans didn’t marry. She didn’t scrub and sew and plan dowries. She donned a suit of armor and went to war for her dauphin.”

“Who betrayed her to the English,” I reminded her and paused. “Beatriz, the Maid was called upon to perform God’s work. You cannot compare her destiny to ours. She was a holy vessel; she sacrificed herself for her country.”

Beatriz made a rude snorting sound but I knew I’d scored an inarguable point in this argument we’d been engaged in since childhood. I remained outwardly unperturbed, as I invariably did when Beatriz pontificated, but as I imagined my vivacious friend clad in rusty armor, urging a company of lords to war for
la patria
, a sudden giggle escaped me.

“Now you laugh at me!” she cried.

“No, no.” I choked back my mirth as best I could. “I was not. I was only thinking that had the Maid come your way, you’d have joined her without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Indeed, I would have.” She leapt to her feet. “I’d have thrown my books and embroidery out the window and jumped on the first horse available. How wonderful it must be to do as you please, to fight for your country, to live with only the sky as your roof and the earth as your bed.”

“You exaggerate, Beatriz. Crusades involve more hardship than history tells us.”

“Perhaps, but at least we’d be
doing
something!”

I looked at her hands, clasped as if she were brandishing a weapon. “You could certainly wield a sword with those big paws of yours,” I teased.

She stuck out her chin. “You’re the princess, not me. You would wield the sword.”

As if day had slipped without warning into night, cold overcame me. I shivered. “I don’t think I could ever lead an army,” I said, in a low voice. “It must be terrible to watch your countrymen cut down by your foes and to know your own death can happen at any moment. Nor”—I held up my hand, preempting Beatriz’s protest—“do I think you should exalt the Maid of Orleans as an example for us to emulate. She fought for her prince only to suffer a cruel death. I’d not wish such a fate on anyone. Certainly, I do not wish it for myself. Boring as it may be to you, I’d rather wed and bear children, as is my duty.”

Beatriz gave me a penetrating look. “Duty is for weaklings. Don’t tell me you haven’t questioned as well. You devoured that tale of the crusader kings in our library as if it were marzipan.”

I forced out a laugh. “You truly are incorrigible.”

At that moment, Alfonso and Don Chacón rode up, the governor looking most chagrined. “Your Highness, my lady de Bobadilla, you shouldn’t have galloped off like that. You could have been hurt, or worse. Who knows what lies in wait on these lands at dusk?”

I heard the fear in his voice. Though King Enrique had seen fit to leave us be in Arévalo, isolated from court, his shadow was never far from our lives. The threat of abduction was a peril I’d long grown accustomed to, had in fact come to ignore. But Chacón was devoted to our protection and viewed any possibility of a threat as a serious matter.

“Forgive me,” I told him. “I am at fault. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Whatever it was, I’m impressed,” said Alfonso. “Who would have thought you’d be such an Amazon, sweet sister?”

“I, an Amazon? Surely not. I merely tested Canela’s prowess. He did well, don’t you think? He’s much faster than his size would indicate.”

Alfonso grinned. “He is. And yes, you did very well, indeed.”

“And now we must be getting back,” said Chacón. “Night is almost upon us. Come, we’ll take the main road. And no galloping ahead this time, do I make myself clear?”

Back on our horses, Beatriz and I followed my brother and Chacón into the twilight. Beatriz opted not to act up, I noted with relief, riding demurely at my side. Yet as we neared Arévalo, streaks of coral inking the sky, I couldn’t help but recall our conversation, and wonder, despite all efforts to the contrary, what it must feel like to be a man.

C. W. G
ORTNER
holds an MFA in writing, with an emphasis on historical studies, from the New College of California. He is the author of the critically acclaimed novel
The Last Queen
, which to date has been translated into twelve languages. He is currently working on a novel about the early reign of Isabella of Castile, as well as a mystery series set in Tudor England.

Raised in Málaga, Spain, Gortner is half-Spanish by birth and now lives in California. For special features and to schedule book group chats with him, please visit
www.cwgortner.com
.