History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (12 page)

I stared at him for a long moment, outraged that he’d dare lecture me on Spain as if I were an uninformed pupil. I would have to tread with caution. Despite the alleged informality of our gathering, I realized we had entered a potential battleground.

“You know much of our arrangements in Spain, it seems. Surely you also must know my sister Isabella has wed the new prince of Portugal. If anyone should be named infante, it is he.”

“Not necessarily. Portugal has too much power already; its claims in the New World alone rival Spain’s. If your sister’s new husband is named infante, he’ll yoke Spain to Portugal upon your parents’ deaths and rule through your sister.” Besançon sighed. “His Highness your brother’s death is a tragedy, but it can be mitigated through Spain’s alliance with us. After all, His Highness is your husband; you stand next in line to the throne and are already with child, while your sister remains barren. Our proposal will be a blessing to your parents in their time of grief.”

My alarm increased. I’d never seen myself as second in line to anything, much less the Spanish throne. My brother had always been the one who would rule, and his sons after him. Though my sisters and I had an exemplary education, for my mother did not believe a woman should be refused the advantages of literacy, our ultimate purpose was the role of queen consorts to our royal husbands. We’d been trained to be erudite but not overly so, conversant on many subjects but experts on none, to be decorous and accomplished and always discreet.

None of us was trained to rule.

I glanced at Philip. He gave me a cautious smile. “We’re thinking of the future of Spain, Juana. Your parents have not been long on their thrones. You yourself told me of all the troubles they face. Your brother’s loss could incite unrest among the nobles; and should Aragón refuse to acknowledge your sister as the new heir, who knows what may ensue?”

I knotted my hands over my belly. I couldn’t yet feel my child, but I wished I could. I needed a reminder of the recent happiness I’d felt and which this conversation had vanquished like a finger snuffing out a candlewick.

As if on cue, Besançon stood. “I will go now, with Your Highness’s leave.”

Philip nodded; I did not look at the archbishop as he waddled out. The moment I heard the door shut, I raised my eyes to Philip. He regarded me for a moment. Then he sank to his knees before my chair and took my hands in his.

“There is a very real threat from France. No one knows what Louis intends, but both Besançon and I heard rumors while at the Estates that he seeks a more aggressive stance over Naples than his predecessor. Spain and France are longtime foes: I hardly need tell you what a war between them could mean to your parents—and to us.”

I nodded, frightened now. My father had warned me about Louis. He’d told me the new king of France lacked scruple or conscience. My parents’ treasuries were bankrupt; a conflict with a nation as large and rich as France would bring disaster upon my native land, only recently united under my parents’ rule and still seeking its foothold amid the established powers of Europe.

“Do you think…?” I paused, then swallowed. “Do you think he’ll declare war?”

“I don’t know. If he does, he’ll not warn of it beforehand. But if I am named into the succession he may think before he acts. He won’t want us and your parents allied against him.” Philip sat back on his heels. “Besançon wants to send an envoy to Castile to present my proposal to your mother. I would like you to add a letter, explaining that you support my endeavors.”

I started. “A letter?” I let out a tight laugh. “You do not know my mother. My brother is scarcely cold in his grave. She’ll find the timing of this most ill advised.”

“Your brother has been dead nearly six months. Your mother is a queen; she’ll understand.”

I saw Besançon’s hand in this, manipulating Philip into thinking such a scheme was possible.

“Be that as it may,” I said carefully, “I still think she’ll take it as an insult. You are not of Spanish blood. How can she name you into the succession, even if she wanted to? Both her and my father’s Cortes would refuse.”

He frowned. “This isn’t about legislation: it’s about my royal rights.”

I resisted an impatient sigh. “Philip, in Spain the Cortes represents the nobility and the people’s interests. It must first invest a sovereign before he can legally claim the throne; it’s a formality, yes, but it’s always held that Spain must have a Spanish-born king.”

“Are we to be dictated to by warlords and merchants, then?” he muttered. “I’m not asking to be king,” he added, with a forced smile. “I just want my name entered in the succession as a safeguard and the title of infante. After we have our son, he can assume this right. He shares both our bloods. He can inherit, yes?”

“Philip, our child isn’t even born yet. I might bear a daughter.”

“You won’t.” He leaned to me. “Will you write the letter? I need your help.”

What else could I do? If he was going to present his proposition regardless, an accompanying letter from me might ease the effrontery of it, perhaps smooth the way toward a compromise.

He kissed my cheek. “Now, I won’t have you worrying about this. Write the letter and leave the rest to Besançon. Remember, you have our son to take care of.”

His conviction troubled me only a little less than the announcement that he’d relegate our policies to the archbishop. I couldn’t help but fear we were in for a rude surprise. I knew my mother. She would not rest until Castile
and
Aragón invested Isabella as heir. And she’d not take kindly to any proposal that suggested otherwise, regardless of its goal.

After we dined together, I returned to my rooms, wondering how to explain my dilemma in a letter. I owed Philip my loyalty as his wife and he wished to extend his support. My mother had instructed me—indeed, commanded me—to uphold Spain’s interests above all else, but she never explained that sometimes these situations were not as clear as they looked. Still, as I sat before my desk with a blank page and quill, I could imagine my parents’ anxiety over Louis of France’s ambition, their crushing grief over Juan. Philip was right: everything they had fought for hung in the balance. Without a male heir, Castile and Aragón could be torn apart, fall prey to the avarice of the nobility. Maybe my father and mother had already thought ahead; maybe they would welcome Philip’s proposal. And if I did bear a son, as so many believed, he’d have my blood. My parents’ legacy would live on through him.

I sighed, glancing at my belly. I took up my quill.

Inking the sharpened tip, I began to write.

SUMMER SLIPPED TOWARD FALL, AND I OCCUPIED MYSELF WITH
preparations for my child’s birth. The chamber selected for me would be lavish, the bed upholstered in the finest cloth, the tapestry hangings woven especially in Bruges for the occasion. In my apartments, I spent hours inspecting fabric samples sent by all the burghers eager to curry my patronage with their wares.

“That peach satin.” I pointed to the sample Beatriz held up. “It would lighten the chamber curtains, don’t you think, seeing as the windows must remain shuttered.” I scowled. “It all seems most primitive. Why must I give birth like a bear in a cave?”

Beatriz rolled her eyes in sympathy and reached over to extract a green velvet sample from the pile at her feet. “What about this one? It would look lovely with the amber satin coverlet.”

I nodded. “Yes. We’ll ask for ten yards, and—” I glanced up, hearing noise in the antechamber. The door opened. Besançon strode in, his satin robes billowing.

“Leave us,” he told Beatriz. “I wish to speak with Her Highness alone.”

Beatriz looked at me. I nodded.

I could not believe he had dared to barge into my rooms unannounced. We’d never been alone before; seeing him now in all his fulsome glory made me want to rebuke him for everything he had done. I did not, because I expected Philip to follow; when my husband failed to appear, I said coldly, “Yes, my lord? What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

He returned my stare in absolute silence. I could tell he was angry; his already florid cheeks were even redder, making him look like an over-baked boar. “We’ve received Her Majesty your mother’s answer to our proposal,” he said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded parchment. He dropped it into my lap. “I suggest Your Highness read it and see the high esteem in which Her Majesty holds us.”

I did not touch the paper. I could guess its contents. “Perhaps you should tell me,” I replied, “seeing as you’ve apparently come here to that purpose.”

“Very well. She advises that as His Highness your husband has no legal rights in Spain, she can only assume we’ve suffered an unfortunate lapse in judgment. She orders us to respect the decision of her Cortes to declare your sister Isabella’s child as her heir.”

I sat upright. “Isabella’s child? My sister is pregnant?”

“She is. Seven months, in fact. Her midwives have assured your parents the child is male. He will be named heir to Castile and Aragón. A clever twist, is it not? Your sister’s babe will be king not only of Spain but also of Portugal. No yoking of the great realm to its neighbor now—no, it’s to be the other way around. I believe Her Majesty has set herself to building an empire.”

My hands closed over the letter. I clenched my teeth against the retort that he was not fit to wipe Her Majesty’s riding boots.

I heard him say, “Your Highness doesn’t seem surprised.”

I met his stare. “Of course, I am. I had no idea Isabella was pregnant.”

“But you’re relieved. You never wanted His Highness to be heir; you made that quite clear.”

“And you, my lord, should have a care,” I replied, “for you forget with whom you speak.” I braced my hands on my chair arms and came to my feet. “If that is all, please tell my husband I wish to see him.”

Besançon regarded me. “His Highness is most aggrieved by this matter and has gone riding.”

Despite my effort to remain calm, my voice edged. “Then you will send word to wherever he is that I too am aggrieved but am not to blame. I did not tell my mother to refuse this proposal, nor was it I who had the idea to set it before her.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, to my disbelief. “And yet Your Highness is Spain come to Flanders and therefore must understand that in refusing us this request, Spain has insulted Flanders.”

“Us?” I took an angry step to him. “There is no ‘us,’ my lord, except for my husband and I. And I did not insult him. I would never insult him as you insulted me, and him, by treating my matrons as you did.”

His eyes were like shards of ice. “You forget I chose you. His Highness could have wed elsewhere had I deigned it so.”

I trembled from head to toe, longing to fling the paper in my hand at his face. “The moment my husband returns, I will tell him of your presumption. You are not so well favored that he’d take your side over mine. Lest
you
forget, my lord, I am to bear his child and heir, not you.”

He bowed, went to the door. He paused, looked over his fleshy shoulder. “I suggest you reconsider testing His Highness’s patience,” he lilted, as if we’d just had an argument over the starching of my linens. “He is not accustomed to having his actions questioned by anyone, much less his wife and her mother. He might take it amiss that in your zeal to defend Spain, you apparently disregard the fact that he too is a ruler, with his own realm to consider.”

I breathed, “You will not get away with this. You have my word as an infanta of Castile.”

He inclined his head. “We offered to assist Spain in her time of difficulty. Seeing as that wasn’t good enough, so be it. Flanders has been forced to choose, and choose we will.”

Before I could react to this implicit threat, he opened my apartment door. “I wish you a pleasant evening,” he said, and he walked out.

My teeth cut into my lip. I unfolded my mother’s letter. I forced myself to read it, every word, and it was as though she stood in the room with me, her presence like immutable stone. It read just as I’d supposed—a matriarchal chastisement of a prince who had overstepped his bounds. Her high-handed treatment made me want to tear the letter to shreds, even as I knew she only did what Besançon had goaded her to.

Beatriz came in, her pallor showing she’d overheard everything. “
Princesa,
can I help?”

I nodded. “Yes. Go and see if you can find out when Philip is scheduled to return.”

She slipped out. Folding the letter into precise squares, I set it on my desk and went to the window. Outside, the day had started to fade, the ebbing sun casting gold over the Néthe and the hedges and flower beds of the gardens. I was not so naïve as to think Philip would not hear first from Besançon that we’d had an altercation, but he would still come to me. He would come and I would ask him to send that odious man away. I could not live under the same roof with him anymore. He had to go, for the health of our unborn child, if nothing else.

Beatriz returned to tell me Philip had indeed gone out riding but had taken only a small entourage and was expected back by nightfall. Throughout the rest of the evening, as my women endeavored to distract me, I waited. Soraya and Beatriz served my supper, but I picked at the food, looking at the door every time I heard footsteps in the corridor. I sent Beatriz back out; she reported on her return that Philip had just arrived and gone to his apartments.