History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (19 page)

“I believe you. But he hasn’t endeared himself by his actions in France. Still, there is time for him to prove himself. I, for one, will not hasten to judgment, if it’s any consolation.”

“It is,” I whispered. For a second, tears stung the corners of my eyes. All of a sudden, I felt exhausted. I rose to my feet. “I must rest,” I said. I held out my hand. “I am very grateful for your candor and kindness tonight, my lord. I promise you, it won’t be forgotten.”

He bowed, set his lips to my fingers. “Your Highness, I will always strive to serve you. Regardless of your husband the archduke, you are my infanta and will one day be my queen.”

TWO DAYS LATER, AFTER PHILIP HAD RESTED AND RECOVERED HIS
strength, we departed for Castile under a dreary drizzle.

“Where is that blazing Spanish sun that supposedly blinds the eye?” he muttered at my side. “Where are the lemon trees and oranges that cost a king’s ransom? All I see is rock and rain.”

“You’re thinking of the south.” I glanced anxiously behind us at the
grandes.
Thus far, Philip hadn’t spoken more than a few words to them. “You’ll soon see how beautiful Spain is. Nothing can compare.”

He grunted. “I certainly hope so, considering the lengths you’ve gone to get us here.”

But the last of the pain in his tooth, and his petulance, subsided as we entered Castile. Spring had come early, and the fertile
meseta
opened before us like an offering, cloaked in tender grass. The Ebro and Manzanares ran cold with melting snow; the pine and cedar forests exuded pungent scent; and harts, hares, and quail bounded from the paths. This was the Spain of renown, of grandeur and plenty; and Philip started pointing at everything, asking a thousand questions, his fascination with what he saw seeming to dissipate some of the smoldering resentment I felt toward him from Villena, who was obliged to explain to my husband the bounty of the hunting in Castile. Male topics of interest, it appeared, were universal.

In Madrid, we lodged in the old Alcázar. Holy Week was upon us and I took Philip onto the ramparts to behold the illuminated processions and chanting clergy in their hooded robes, all orchestrated to the dolorous
saeta
sung to the Virgin in her hour of grief. He beheld it in awe, as if transfixed. Then he spun to me, yanking up my skirts as he lowered me onto the walkway and stilled my startled protest with his lips. It was deemed a venal sin to make love at this most holy of times, but it had been so long since we’d been together, I could not resist and let him take me then and there under the star-spattered sky, the
saeta
punctuating his hungry thrusts.

After that, our quarrels were forgotten, my native soil rousing fervid new life in us. We took to each other with a desire not experienced since our nuptials; even as his courtiers diced desultorily in the hall, forbidden to explore the local taverns because of the religious observances, Philip and I indulged our carnality.

“I believe you Spaniards must be all a little mad,” he said to me one night as we lay in our disheveled bed, after we’d beheld the Holy Friday flagellants scourging themselves in the streets. “I have never seen such a thirst for lust or suffering.”

I stretched voluptuously. “We are a people of strong passions.” I resisted the pang of guilt that I had given rein to those passions with complete disregard for propriety, reasoning it was better to have Philip in a good humor for our upcoming meeting with my parents.

He slid his hand up my thigh. “Yes, so I’ve seen.” He found my sex. “Fortunately, we Flemish have less complicated needs.”

I gave a husky laugh. He was too spent to do anything more for the moment, so after we tousled languidly, like cats, I rose and went to drape myself at the casement window, leaving him sprawled on the bed, already drifting to sleep.

I closed my eyes, reveling in the sensation of air on my sweat-dampened skin, inhaling the dusky scent of wild roses drifting to me from some unseen vine.

Home. It intoxicated me: the eternal skies, the lingering light, the smell of blood and flowers and earth. I had not forgotten it, none of it. My memories had been subsumed by the opulence of Flanders, by the monotony of canals and colored gardens. As I lifted my face to the sharp crescent moon, so yellow it seemed a dim sun, I marveled I could have ever found contentment in that distant realm and was overcome without warning by an aching loneliness, a deep longing for my children, and a strange disorientation, as though I no longer knew where I belonged.

I scarcely heard the pounding hooves until I saw riders gallop into the courtyard below.

My eyes snapped open. I looked down, saw a group of men dismounting from lathered horses; when one of them whipped off his cap and glanced up at the window with a sly knowing smile, I gave an involuntary gasp and leapt back.

“Felipe! Wake up!” I rushed through the chamber, throwing on a robe, grabbing up his breeches and flinging them at the bed. “Get dressed! My father is here!”

Then I flew out the door, down the staircase, and straight into his arms.

I buried my face in the coarse wool doublet, drawing in the unforgettable smell of my childhood. All doubt fled from me. I swallowed a sob of joy as he drew back a little and cupped my chin. His smile brightened his weathered features, which were deeply changed from the last time I had seen him.
“Mi madrecita,”
he murmured, “so beautiful you’ve become.”

Tears filled my eyes.

His dark hair had thinned; lines crevassed his mouth and eyes. He seemed smaller somehow, when before he seemed to tower. Yet his smile was the same, and his body still compact with the musculature of a man more at home on a saddle than a throne.

“Your mother and I only just returned from Sevilla.” He hooked his arm in mine as we went into the house. “She’ll receive you tomorrow. We heard of your mountain crossing and your husband’s toothache. We wanted to make sure you both were well.” He paused, eyeing me. “But perhaps I intrude at this late hour?”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks. I was barefoot, wrapped in a robe, my hair a mess about my face—a fool could see that I’d not been embroidering!

“No, not at all,” I said quickly. “We just retired. Philip should be down at any moment.”

My father took in the Flemish courtiers sprawled by the hearth, empty wineskins at their sides. He said suddenly, “I forget foreigners do not share our penchant for late nights. Is that archbishop of your husband’s about?”

“He’s sleeping,” I said. Fortunately, Besançon slept like the dead. Otherwise, I was sure he’d have been down here already, waddling up to my father with his oily smile. I didn’t want Philip’s first meeting with Papá to be marred by him.

“Good. Then let us go to your husband, where we’ll have some privacy, eh?”

I nodded, hoping Philip had bestirred himself. We climbed the stairs. “Is Mamá well?” I asked. “The Marquis of Villena mentioned some trouble in Sevilla.”

He scowled. “Godforsaken
moriscos.
They lie low for a few years, then, right as rain, up and revolt. Ah, but the moment Cisneros shows up and burns a few for good measure they wail for your mother. So, we had to go to Sevilla to set matters right. The incident exhausted her, of course, but she’s otherwise as well as can be expected.”

I paused. My concern must have shown on my face, for he chucked my chin. “Nothing to fret about, a touch of ague, is all. Now, is this your room?” Before I could stop him, he opened the door and strode in.

Philip had heeded me. He was dressed and, to my dismay, in urgent discourse with none other than Besançon. The air was heavy with the echoes of whatever intrigue they brewed; at my father’s appearance, they stood as if paralyzed for a moment.

The archbishop swerved to my father and extended his hand to be kissed, as befitted a prince of the church. It made me want to order him out.

“Your Majesty,” he drawled, “such an unexpected honor.”

My father ignored the outstretched hand. “No doubt,” he clipped. “I hardly expected to see you again either, my lord, after your last visit.”

The archbishop flushed. Philip came to my father, grasped his hand like an equal, and kissed him on both cheeks. My father accepted his French greeting with a crooked smile, then snapped his fingers, without glancing at Besançon.

“My lord archbishop, I would have a word in private with my son-in-law, if you please.” Philip had enough sense of the tension between them to add, “Yes, go. We’ll speak later.”

With a huff and swirl of his robes, Besançon stomped out.

Philip said suavely, in French, “Your Majesty must forgive me. Had I known beforehand of your arrival, I’d have prepared myself better.”

My father turned to me. “He speaks no Spanish? Well, then, you must translate for us,
madrecita.
As you know, my French is appalling.”

His French was actually superb, but I was relieved their conversation began amiably. I sensed tension when the subject of our French visit came up. Then my father winked at me, indicating he’d heard of my role in the affair. He refrained from questioning Philip; instead, he embraced my husband with masculine camaraderie and ordered him to get some sleep, as we must rise early to go to Toledo to meet my mother and her court.

I accompanied my father to the room his entourage had commandeered for him.

“Close the door,
madrecita,
” he said. When I turned to him, I saw a nerve quiver under his left eye. That telltale twitch always acted up when he was troubled. Or angered.

“Philip must be embarrassed,” I said. “He had so hoped to impress you. He had a new suit of brocade made for the occasion.”

“He can wear it tomorrow.” He regarded me without expression.

I said softly, “Papá, I know how displeased you must be. I take full responsibility for our actions. What happened in France should never have occurred.”

“No, it shouldn’t. But I do not blame you for your husband and Besançon’s misdeeds.”

His rebuke stung all the more for its directness, as it had in my childhood, when I had lived for his approval. “Philip will renounce this alliance,” I said. “I promise you, Papá, he just needs to understand how dangerous it is for Spain. He doesn’t mean us harm. He was thinking only of the benefits. And I met Louis in person; I tell you, he could talk a bird into the serpent’s jaws.”

My father chuckled dryly. “That sounds like a Valois all right.” He went silent for a moment. “You must love Philip very much, to defend him so.”

“I do,” I said softly.

“And I recall you once saying he meant nothing to you. Ah, your mother is right: how quickly time passes. Here I am, an old man, while my favorite daughter is a wife and mother.”

He smiled sadly, lowering his eyes. All of a sudden, it was as if all the humor and infectious joy for life had drained out of him. “I wish you could have brought your children. Isabel and I were looking forward to meeting them, especially your son, Charles.”

I reached out. “Papá, I’m so sorry. For Juan and Isabella, and little Miguel—I’d do anything to have them here.”

He looked up. I saw something I had never seen before: tears, in my father’s eyes. “It is a terrible thing to bury one’s children, Juana. I pray you never suffer the same. Now Maria is in Portugal, Catalina in England….” He paused, gnawed at his inner lip. “But you are here.” He straightened, drawing in a deep breath. “Yes, you are home now, where you belong.”

I put my arms around him and he yielded to me, almost like a child.

FIFTEEN

T
oledo shone like a whitewashed barnacle, its maze of houses, serpentine streets, and
morisco
palaces seeming to shine with liquid gold in the morning light. The ramparts were bedecked in silk banners of every hue; wreaths, pennants, and precious tapestries hung from wrought-iron balconies, and the toll of the cathedral bells echoed into the Tagus Valley. The people crowded on either side of the streets roared in acclaim as we rode up the winding cobblestone road and dismounted before the
casa real,
where my mother had taken residence.

With my eyes dazzled by the sunlight, far brighter than in Flanders, all I could discern of my mother when we entered the
sala mayor
was her dark figure at the foot of the dais. My father went before me, accompanied by the nobles. As Philip and I approached, the elderly Marquise de Moya and my father’s bastard daughter, Joanna de Aragón, wife to the Castilian constable, sank into reverent curtsies.

My heart started to pound. Philip and I reached the appointed distance from the dais and knelt. I heard skirts rustle. A low voice said, “Welcome, my children. Rise. Let me look at you.”

I stood. I went still. Had I not known she was my mother, I would not have recognized her.

The last time I’d seen her, she had been stout, a matron, still arresting but no longer youthful. I’d anticipated the toll that age and grief might take; what I hadn’t expected was to see this frail figure, her cheekbones incised under ashen skin enhanced by her dark wool dress—the mourning she’d worn since my brother’s death. Only her ethereal eyes were unchanged, brilliant as though her life force concentrated itself there, intent on detaining time.

“Mamá,” I whispered, before I could stop myself.

She held out her hands. I was enfolded in her gaunt, lavender-scented embrace.
“Bienvenida a tu reino,”
she whispered. “Welcome to your kingdom.”

A FEW DAYS LATER, AFTER A ROUND OF UNINTERRUPTED FESTIVITIES,
my father took Philip and his suite hawking in the fertile vales surrounding Toledo. That same afternoon, my mother sent the Marquise de Moya to me with her summons.

We had not been alone since my arrival. As I moved with the aged marquise to my mother’s apartments I had a vivid reminder of the last time I’d been summoned and felt the familiar tension between my shoulder blades. Then, my mother had called me to inform me of my impending marriage; this time, I anticipated something equally challenging. She had displayed her characteristic fortitude at each of the entertainments staged to welcome us, sitting Philip at her side and engaging him in discourse. Nevertheless, her jaundiced face and uncertain gait showed how much our reception had exacted of her, and in all that time not once had she mentioned the French alliance and betrothal of my son.

I drew myself to attention when the marquise paused at the apartment entrance. She turned to me, a tiny woman now, gray as cinders. “Her Majesty will not be treated like an invalid,” she said. “I tell you this so you can be forewarned. Be patient with her. She’s suffered much.”

I nodded, forcing a smile on my lips as I stepped into the simply furnished solar. I curtsied, feeling like a child again, my mother seated by the window, waiting. At some unseen cue, her shadowy women dispersed. I fought back a sudden sense of helplessness and took the upholstered chair opposite my mother. I was a grown woman. Whatever she had to say, I was more than able to both hear and respond to it.

Her smile was vague, her gaze traveling over my figure. “I am pleased to see childbirth has not affected your figure.”

Ever to the point; I was gratified that some things remained the same. “Thank you, Mamá.”

Her face tightened. She adjusted her swollen feet on her footstool. “Now we must talk.”

A strange defensiveness arose in me, though I tried to keep it at bay. She was ill, and no doubt worried, I told myself. I must focus on remaining calm and attentive. There was no reason this first discourse between us should not go amicably. I was, after all, her successor. She would not want our past disagreements to mar our reunion any more than I did. But another darker part of me already braced for battle. We had never been friends, and I was not her chosen successor, not the one she’d have wanted for her throne. We had come to this place through death and loss.

She confirmed my thoughts with her next words: “This French alliance of your husband’s must be repudiated before our Cortes can invest him as prince consort. Your father has had a trying time convincing Aragón’s procurators that their foolish law prohibiting female succession cannot prevail over Spain’s hard-earned unity. Your husband’s decision to betroth your only son and his heir to the French princess can only make the situation more difficult.”

“His name is Philip,” I said. “My husband’s name is Philip.”

“I know what his name is.” She paused. “I also know what he has done.” Her stare pierced me to the bone. When she saw me stiffen, she sighed. “It’s never been easy between us, I know. We are not, as they say, kindred spirits. But I am still your mother. I did what I thought best for you. I never stopped loving you, no matter what you may think. And I know everything, Juana.”

I could not move a muscle. “Everything?”

“Yes. Such matters are rarely secret for long at any court, much less one as licentious as his. I also understand, for I endured much the same in my youth. I know how it feels to discover your husband has sought the company of other women. I know what it is like to flee from him, and to forgive him and take him back, though he has broken your heart.”

It was the last thing I’d expected to hear from her, the one sordid part of my marriage I had hoped to hide and forget. The sudden intimacy between us was almost painful.

“Papá,” I whispered. “You speak of his mistress, the one who bore him Joanna.”

She nodded. “I do. Fidelity is always harder for a man. And your father found it very difficult to accept the differences in our ranks. As you know, by the laws of Castile, he’s my king consort. He does not hold the sovereign powers I do, though I’ve done my utmost to exalt him as my equal. But he’s always known this realm looks first to me as its queen and it has hurt him. So he went to others, common women with whom he could first and foremost be king.”

“But he loves you,” I said, not wanting to see this side of my father, though I knew she spoke the truth. “He’s always loved you. Anyone can see that.”

“It has nothing to do with love. What I doubted was his ability to live in the shadow I cast over him.” She held up her hand. “But I did not ask you here to speak of my past. Time has a way of softening us; like me, your father is getting old. Your husband, on the other hand, is still young and, from what I’ve seen thus far, very headstrong. He is frustrated by what he perceives as his lack of status; it festers in him like a wound. What I did with Fernando, what he accepted of me, Philip may not take so easily from you.”

The admonition sliced between us like a blade. I lifted a hand to my throat, my gaze fixed on my mother’s face. When she leaned to me and grasped my hand, a gasp escaped me. Her fingers were bony but firm, calloused from years of riding. Only in her hands could the memory of her strength still be felt, though her touch was cold.

“Whatever pain he has caused you,” she said, “whatever doubts he’s engendered must be set aside. I need your strength now. Spain needs it. This realm will demand everything you can give, Juana, and much more. We must prove you are capable of ruling after my death.”

The reality of what I would soon face struck me with the force of a blow. I had never been able to imagine Spain without my mother: in my mind, the two were inextricably linked, conjoined like a child to the womb. Not until this moment did I truly let the weight of the future sink in, and for a terrifying instant I wanted to flee.

“Mamá, no.” I couldn’t keep the quaver from my voice. “You mustn’t talk like that. You are ill, is all. You will not die.”

She chuckled dryly. “Oh, but I will. Why should I, a mere vessel of dust, not go where every mortal creature must? That is why time—this time we have now—is so important.”

She released my hand, the force she had emanated fading. “When I heard about this matter in France, I feared the worst. When that archbishop Besançon first came here to haggle with us as though we were cloth merchants, I saw the manner of man from whom your husband received his advice. I cannot say the French alliance surprised me; any fool could see Besançon seeks to play any side he can to his advantage. But you, my daughter—you surprised me. You demonstrated a remarkable conviction and strength before the French court and upheld your royal blood. Your husband, on the other hand, showed he is fit only to govern his paltry state in Flanders. He is weak, too easily influenced. He has the character of a courtier, not a king: he doesn’t seem to comprehend that before riches, before titles, vanity, or pleasure, before, if necessary, his life itself, the Crown must come first.”

These were hard words to hear. They seemed to go to the very heart of the situation with a lack of emotional ambiguity that I found unsettling. “You do not know him,” I said quietly. “Yes, he has his faults like anyone else, but, Mamá, he isn’t a bad man.”

She tilted her head. “No man is, at first. But good has a way of losing to ambition. And nothing can alter the fact that he chose to betroth his son and heir—whom we would name after you in our succession—to Louis of France’s daughter. Not to mention, he lets himself be governed by Besançon, a man unworthy to wear the cloth of the church.”

Her words cut deep, as she intended. Still, I did not take my eyes from hers as she added, “Yet he will one day be your king consort, as Fernando is mine. We must therefore ensure that in the final say you are the one to rule. Rule as I have, and will continue to do, until my last breath.”

Her stare was riveting, inexhaustible, as if flames had been lit inside her eyes. I knew in that instant that there was something else she wanted, something only I could achieve. Beyond her chastisement of Philip, that was the real reason she had summoned me here.

“The French betrothal,” I said aloud. “You want me to get him to repudiate it.”

She shook her head. “Let your father and I shoulder that particular task. What I require from you is to persuade him to remain in Spain as long as is necessary. He is too foreign in his ways and in his thoughts. We must separate him from Besançon, teach him to think and act like a Spanish prince. Only then will our
grandes
and the Cortes accept him.”

Her insight into my husband’s character, after a week of having known him, made me wonder about myself. It had taken me years to recognize his dependence on the archbishop; and I had not paused to consider how he might be seen in my native country, how his careless gallantry, which I found so novel, might inspire contempt in the somber eyes of Castile.

“Very well,” I said in a low voice. “What must I do?”

“I’ll not lie to you. The road ahead is fraught with problems. Many here would rather we named your son Charles heir, with yourself as queen regent until he comes of age. The Cortes, the nobles, the people—they will not trust a foreigner for their king. For the time being, however, your father and I have delayed the convening of our Cortes and the ratification of any titles. Mind you, the delay can only be temporary. But for now it gives us an opportunity.”

Her voice deepened. “The power I offer you will set you above your husband. You will be queen of Castile and Aragón; on your head will rest our joint crowns. Philip can never have your authority, and you must never give it to him. What the Cortes demand, what the nobles require, is a monarch who will be feared and respected. I spent many years courting the favor of the one and subduing the greed of the other. That is why I must know if you’re willing to do what is required. If not, any effort I make to win over your husband will be meaningless.”

The silence that ensued was like a sound in and of itself.

Then I said, “Do you…do you think I can rule as queen?”

She sighed. “You are my daughter. Of course I do.”