History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (15 page)

Slung between my duenna and Beatriz, I staggered up the stairs. By the time I reached the landing and began hastening down the corridor, I was fighting with all my will to contain the babe struggling to free itself from my womb. My water slowed to a trickle; there was a momentary lull in the pangs. I quickened my step into the gallery connected to my apartments.

Only a little more to go.

I felt the first warm blood seep down my thigh. A cry escaped me—“Dear God, it’s started!”—and I faltered, the gallery seeming to stretch to infinity. I could go no farther. Flinging open the nearest door, I rushed into a privy and kicked aside the straw rushes. I started to crouch.

“No, not here!” cried Doña Ana.

“It’s either here or out there,” I snapped.

Without ado, Beatriz shoved her tight sleeves to her elbows and helped me to the floor, propping my legs on the privy stool. The little room stank of urine and feces, but fortunately the worst of the night’s offenders had not yet made their drunken way here. My duenna stood aghast. Then I let out a high-pitched moan and she got down on her hands and knees to thrust her head under my skirts. “Like a pig in filth,” I heard her mutter. “What will Her Majesty say when she hears of this?” Her fingers probed. “Someone fetch the cloths and my herb chest. Now!”

Footsteps fled.

I started to laugh at the absurdity of it all until a pain unlike any I had experienced suffocated my mirth. Doña Ana emerged from under my skirts, her hood askew. “I can see the child’s head. Push,
mi niña.
Push as if your life depended on it.”

“Push?” I shrieked. “I can’t! It’ll break me in two!”

“It will break you if you don’t,” she said, with steel in her voice. “Do it.
Ahora!
”

I braced myself, clutching the edge of the stool with one hand, the other digging into Beatriz as she knelt beside me. Hauling breath through my teeth, I pushed with all my strength.

Doña Ana thrust again under my gown, which was now hiked past my waist. “Almost there. Push one more time. Yes, that’s it. Let nature do its work.”

Soraya returned with the swaddling cloths and herb chest. I screamed, feeling an enormous obstacle prying me open. The pain was searing, all-encompassing; just as I thought I could take no more of it, something slipped loose and a vast, wet relief swept through me.

“The child,” gasped Doña Ana. “Quick! Give me the scissors!”

Soraya jerked forward. A lumpy mass gushed from between my legs. In swift succession, I watched Doña Ana grab hold of a small, bloody body, nip with the scissors, and swat with her free hand. As a wail ruptured the silence, I collapsed against Beatriz. I wanted to ask if the child was healthy, if it was a boy, but my mouth was tinder-dry. Doña Ana took a vial from her coffer and rubbed the wailing infant in marigold ointment, then started swaddling it in the linen cloths.

An urgent clamor approached the privy. “My child,” I whispered. “Give it to me.”

I forced myself to sit up. Doña Ana set the babe in my arms. She hadn’t finished the dressing, but the babe ceased crying when it felt me, and as I glanced at it, a thrill surged inside me.

I looked up to see Philip peering in, his eyes wide at the sight of the sweat-soaked women and me, spread-eagled in my bloodied finery.

I reached up, extending the child to him. “Behold your son.”

And as he gazed through his tears at our boy in his arms, I laughed aloud, in triumph.

ELEVEN

I
turned twenty-one in 1500, an age when most women of my rank have begun to settle into the rest of their lives. I had given birth to a healthy daughter and a son and had endured some of the trials every marriage undergoes. I could now look forward to a time of maturity and satisfaction, content in the rearing of my children and my role as patroness of my adopted realm.

I had the examples of countless predecessors to advise me: charity and the benefice of abbeys and convents, of the poor and the fallen, were the purview of privileged women like me. My education had prepared me since childhood for these tasks. My sisters and I had been taught that our power must be confined by our gender, that we would not rule but rather care for our husbands and their subjects in a manner that was neither obtrusive nor compromising. We would plant gardens, not monuments; we would leave echoes, not legends.

No one ever expected us to become anything other than what we were.

GHENT WAS A MARVELOUS CITY, ONE OF MY FAVORITES IN FLANDERS.
With its steepled houses and their multicolored eaves, its stone bridges arching over the canal, bustling mercantile areas and majestic Gothic spires, it epitomized the enthusiastic Flemish spirit. The climate was rarely harsh (indeed, I never ceased to marvel at Flanders’s temperate seasons, especially compared with the tempestuousness of Castile) and our palace nestled like a filigree ornament amid informal gardens where spring scattered the hedges with wildflowers and tulips clustered about fountains.

Seated on a chair under a canopy, I watched my sister-in-law, Margaret, pace the gravel paths with my baby, Charles, in her arms, Eleanor teetering behind with Madame de Halewin. My two-year-old daughter was growing into a sturdy child, her Aragonese blood evident in her olive-tinted complexion and the green-amber eyes that were so like mine. In contrast, my Charles was pure Habsburg, his preternaturally solemn gaze enhanced by skin so white he could not be taken outdoors without his oversize bonnet.

Margaret called to me: “
Chérie!
This boy is an angel, so patient and quiet.”

I smiled in response, fingering the gold filigree brooch Philip had given me in honor of Charles’s birth, an exquisite depiction of the castles and shields of Castile lined in rubies. I was pleased to have Margaret home, if only for a short while. She had arrived from Savoy declaring she might perish of boredom in her new husband’s court, where she literally had nothing to do all day than accumulate a new and ostentatious wardrobe. Today she wore a pink gown slung with so many baubles she clanked like a bishop as she handed Charles to his nursemaid and dropped onto a stool beside me, her elongated features aglow with health.

“Must you go back?” I said. “I want to keep you here with us, selfish that I am. You’re so good with the children, and we need every extra pair of hands we can get.”

She laughed. “You’ve an entire palace of servants to serve you, my dear!” She patted my hand. “I wish I could stay. My husband is a frightful old goat, but he’s quite fond of me and rather rich, so what else can I do? I did tell my father this is absolutely the last marriage I’ll consent to for the sake of his empire.” She let out a sigh. “But I’ll miss the little ones so. Children can bring such joy to one’s life.”

“You’ll make a wonderful mother someday. Perhaps you and the duke…?”

Her bray startled my ladies seated nearby. “
Ma chérie,
how charming of you! Alas, my poor duke has barely enough strength to mount his close stool, much less me.”

We giggled. Then Margaret said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so happy.” She went silent for a moment. “Is everything well, then?”

“It is,” I said softly.

She nodded. “Good. That is how it should be.” She turned her gaze to the garden, where Eleanor was yanking Madame de Halewin toward the fountain. Margaret leapt up. “You naughty child! Stop dragging poor Madame about like a mule!” She marched off to rescue the governess, scooping Eleanor up in her arms.

Madame staggered back to the ladies. “The child has the energy of three,” she panted.

Doña Ana remarked dryly, “You should sit, madame, before you drop dead of apoplexy.”

I resisted a chuckle. With the birth of my children, my duenna and the governess had found a modicum of mutual accord, for even Doña Ana had had to agree that Madame’s years of experience made her the perfect instructor for Eleanor.

I raised a hand to my brow, shielding the sun. It promised to be an unseasonably warm afternoon and I looked forward to a nap in the coolness of my rooms before the evening banquet. Then I caught sight of a page running toward me, dressed in our livery of black and yellow.

He came to a breathless halt and bowed low. Sweat dripped from the curls under his cap. “His Highness asks that Your Highness join him. An urgent missive has arrived from Spain.”

His words flung a pall over the sun. I rose, ignoring Doña Ana’s stare as I called to Margaret, “Philip is asking for me. Will you see to the children?”

TENSION LAY THICK IN
the chamber. My stomach knotted when I saw Besançon seated at Philip’s desk, a boulder in his satin and silly tonsure cap, his unblinking toadlike stare fixed on me as I entered the room. Philip turned from where he stood by the window, his face in shadow. He started to move to me when the archbishop burst out without warning: “We’ve received momentous news. The infante Miguel is dead. Your Highness is the new heiress of Castile.”

I felt myself gasp but did not hear my own voice, searching Philip’s expression for the confirmation I did not want to hear. He said, “I am sorry, my love. Your mother has sent word, requesting we go to Spain as soon as possible.”

I found it hard to draw a full breath. “How?” I whispered. “How did my sister’s son die?”

“His lungs failed him, poor soul.” Besançon genuflected cursorily before lifting a sheaf of documents from the desk. “Now then, these papers must be signed and—”

Sudden fury surged in me. “My family has suffered a terrible loss. I’ll sign no papers today.”

He paused. One thin, fair brow arched. “Your Highness, I fear this matter cannot wait.”

“Well, it must!” I rounded on him, releasing in my distraught state the venom I’d nursed toward him. “You astound me, my lord. Have you no inclination to the holy office you purport to serve? You speak of the death of an infante of Spain!”

I felt Philip’s hand on my shoulder, though I had not seen him move to me. “My lord,” he murmured. “Let it be.”

“But Your Highness, the document…It must—”

“I said let it be. I will speak with her. Now go.”

His jowls quivering, Besançon swept out, his robes hissing on the floor like an angry tail.

Philip put a goblet in my hand. “Drink, my love. You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

The warm claret hit my stomach like lead. A terrible queasiness overcame me. It must be the heat, I thought faintly, the heat and shock of the news.

I set the goblet aside with a shaking hand. “What are we going to do?” I said, and I realized I spoke as if of a catastrophe, an earthquake, or terrible fire that had upended my entire world.

I was Spain’s heir. When my parents died, I would be queen. Tragedy had cut a swath through my family and brought me to this unexpected, frightening place. What I had never imagined possible had come to pass. Spain now waited for me.

As if from a vast distance I heard Philip say, “We must prepare, of course. But first, we’ll send Besançon to meet with your parents in person.”

I pulled myself to attention. “No. Not him.”

Philip’s mouth tightened. “Why not? He is my chancellor.”

“Because I…I do not trust him.”

“Juana, this is no time for grievances. He is an expert in these matters: he knows best how to handle such scenarios.” He held up a hand. “And don’t tell me he mishandled that affair with your matrons. We need an experienced adviser, and I trust him with my life. We are the heirs of Castile and Aragón. We must present ourselves appropriately.”

I marked the subtle change in him, his chest puffed out and chin erect, as if he already wore the crown of prince consort. That title Besançon had sought for him from my parents was now his, and he seemed as comfortable with it as I was not. I thought it was normal for him; he was used to being a sole heir and the center of attention, but I could scarcely believe it was happening. How could my life have turned so momentous so quickly?

The air in the room felt heavy. “I’d still prefer we send another,” I said. “Or perhaps we could just go ourselves. My mother did ask for us, not Besançon.”

I heard his foot tap on the floor. “Juana,” he said, with a hint of impatience, “you’re not thinking clearly. Such a trip can’t be planned overnight. We could be gone months; we have our children to consider, my councillors, and the Estates-General to address. No, best to let Besançon pave our way; he can convey our condolences and sign any official documents, then consult with your mother and her council. He is, after all, Cisneros of Toledo’s equal.”

He was right, of course. We couldn’t simply leave. We had a newborn son, a daughter, our households, our entire court. I started to give my reluctant consent when I realized my teeth were chattering. I felt a chill seep into my very bones. I swayed on my chair; as he moved quickly to catch me I whispered, “My women…call for my women.”

Then blackness overcame me.

I AWOKE HOURS LATER IN MY BED, MY ENTIRE BODY ACHING AS
though I’d taken a fall from a horse. At my bedside, Doña Ana wrung out and replaced the marigold-soaked cloth on my brow. Beatriz and Soraya looked on anxiously.

“Am I sick?” I asked. The mere act of speaking made me want to retch. I’d contracted some plague, I thought. The curse that claimed my brother and sister was about to claim me.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” replied Doña Ana. “You’re with child again.”

I stared at her. “That’s not possible. I…I’ve never felt this ill before.”

“Nevertheless, you are with child.” She sniffed. “You have all the signs. It’s hardly surprising, not when a woman will indulge herself as much as you do.”

I sank into my pillows. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Doña Ana stood. “You’d best rest now while you can. When a babe acts up this early, the rest of the term is bound to be difficult.”

“That isn’t what I need to hear,” I groused. I turned away, yanking my covers over my head.

Within moments I succumbed to sleep.