History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (5 page)

The silence was a presence. Everything had changed. This world I loved so much, it would not mourn me. It would not even feel my absence. It would continue on, agelessly indifferent in its beauty, its walls absorbing the echoes of its departed.

I felt Soraya at my side. As her hand enfolded mine, I let my tears fall in furious silence.

THREE

W
e departed Granada for Castile in the evening, to avoid the worst of the heat. The trip would be tedious, with weeks of riding on our hard-backed mules; and as we took the winding mountain road downward into the valleys of Andalucia, I stared over my shoulder.

The Alhambra reclined on its hill, tinted amethyst in the dusk. Above its towers, the sky unfurled like violet cloth, spangled with spun-glass stars. A few peasants lined the road to wave at us; in the many farms dotting the landscape, dogs barked. It was like the end of any summer, as though we’d return again next year as always. Then we rode past the tumble of stones by the roadside where it was said Boabdil had taken his last look at Granada and wept.

Like him, I wondered if I would ever see my cherished palace again.

THREE WEEKS LATER, WE REACHED THE ARID PLATEAU OF CASTILE
and the city of Toledo. Perched on its cragged hill above the river Tagus, Toledo caught the sunset as we approached—a beautiful tumble of white and ocher buildings crowned by the cathedral. I’d always liked the narrow winding streets and the smell of baking bread in the morning, the burst of sudden flowers glimpsed in a courtyard from behind cloister gates, and the glorious Mudejar archways engraved with the secrets of the vanquished Moor.

Now I saw it as a prison, where my future had been decided without me. Toledo was the official gathering place of the Castilian Cortes, that advisory council of lords and officials elected by each major city in Castile. My mother had curtailed the flagrant power of the Cortes from the anarchy prior her reign; however, she still had to appeal to this body to sanction taxes and other major expenditures, as well as royal unions and investiture of her succession.

These same Cortes had approved my betrothal.

As we rode up the steep road toward the Alcázar, I compressed my lips. I’d barely spoken the entire trip, and my ill temper only increased once I found myself within that old castle, a cavernous warren with walls that were always damp to the touch. After the oleander-dusted patios of the Alhambra, it felt suffocating, and to make matters worse, here my French lessons began in earnest, supervised by a humorless tutor who subjected me to interminable lectures and the painstaking daily recitation of vowels.

He drilled me four hours a day, his accent as sour as his breath. I took cold comfort in deliberately mutilating my verbs and watching him turn white with anger; until one afternoon as he droned on and I sat with hands clenched, I heard the clatter of hooves entering the bailey.

I ran to the narrow embrasure. I could scarcely see into the bailey, craning my face against the window slit to catch a glimpse of the arrivals.

“Mademoiselle,” the tutor rapped.
“Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît!”

I ignored him. When I spied the tethered stallions caparisoned in scarlet, I promptly flew from the classroom, leaving him standing there, aghast.

I dashed down the stone staircase. A group of Castilian nobles appeared ahead, making their way to the
sala mayor,
the great hall. I spun around, yanking at my cumbersome skirts, and made haste to the minstrel gallery. If only I could reach him before my mother did, convince him to—

I cursed under my breath when I espied courtiers already assembled in the hall. I could not go in now without an escort, and I crouched instead behind the screen concealing the gallery from the
sala,
to watch as the lords of my father’s court strode in.

When I saw my father with them, I sighed in relief.

His red cloak was flung over his shoulders. The wool would smell as he did, of horse and wine, and his own sweat. Mud-spattered boots hugged legs thick with the muscles of a lifetime spent in the saddle. He wasn’t tall, but he seemed to tower over all as he swept his cap from his head, revealing close-cropped dark hair. With cap in fist and one hand cocked at his hip, he surveyed the ranks of Castile with a grin before he bellowed: “Isabel,
mi amor,
I am home!”

I clapped a hand to my mouth. How the nobles hated it when he yelled like that! His trademark entrance, it conveyed his ebullient love for his wife and disdain for Castile’s rigid protocol. To the
grandes
of my mother’s court, it was yet another sign of his uncouth Aragonese blood, and their faces hardened accordingly.

I didn’t need my mother’s reminder that her Castilian lords did not approve of her husband. Aragón and Castile had been separate kingdoms and sometime foes until my parents wed. Though smaller in size, Aragón had its Mediterranean holdings and a fierce independence, while Castile held most of central Spain and was therefore the greater power. My parents’ union had joined the kingdoms, though their marriage treaty stipulated Aragón could retain its own body of elected representatives, its Cortes, and right of succession. Upon my parents’ deaths, my brother, Juan, would succeed as the first ruler of both kingdoms; his dynasty would ensure Spain never separated again. Until then, my father was king consort of Castile and king of Aragón in his own right and he never let anyone forget it. The Castilian nobles’ dislike of him was only augmented by the fact that my mother had allowed him this concession.

Over the years, I’d heard other tales, not meant for my ears. That my father had an eye for women was evident; my mother had brought his illegitimate daughter, Joanna, to court and made his illegitimate son an archbishop. Yet such peccadilloes hardly mattered in a marriage that was the envy of all who beheld it. My mother never raised an objection and their reunions were always joyous occasions. Papá was a merry companion, who relished a bawdy joke, a good cup of
jérez,
and the company of his children, none of whom loved him more than I.

I peered through the screen. He’d removed his cloak and was conversing with my mother’s trusted adviser, the emaciated Cisneros. His noblemen stood apart from the Castilians, testament to their mutual antipathy. Then my mother entered with my sisters. My father immediately left Cisneros to go to her. Her pale cheeks flushed as he leaned in. To me, it seemed as if there was no one else in the hall, no other lovers in the world. They walked hand in hand to the dais. A smile played on my father’s face as the Castilians came to bow before them.

I melted against the screen. If only I could wed a man like my—

My mother’s voice echoed into the
sala:
“And where, pray tell, is Juana?”

Quickly smoothing my rumpled skirts, I descended into the
sala.

My father grinned as I approached. He’d shaved his beard and his face was bronzed from his travels, giving him the air of an adventurer. I didn’t dare look at my mother. Coming to the foot of the dais, I curtsied. “
Su Majestad,
I am overjoyed to see you.”

“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “What is this,
madrecita
? I don’t care for ceremony from you.”

“Fernando,” chided my mother. “Stop calling her that. She is not your little mother.” As she spoke, she motioned the nobles aside, leaving me on my knees. Then she said, “You may rise. I’ll not spoil your father’s return by asking you where you’ve been.”

Papá chuckled. “She was probably bribing the stable boy for a stallion, so she can ride back to Granada and hide in the hills like a bandit. Anything not to wed the Habsburg, eh?”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“She is impossible,” declared my mother. “She is headstrong and too temperamental by far, and you, my lord husband, only encourage it, when you should set an example.”

Papá laughed. “She’s as you were at her age, my love. Can you fault her? A Spaniard to her core, she no more wants traffic with foreigners than you would.”

I wanted to laugh aloud. Papá would help me. He’d put an end to this odious betrothal.

He held out his hand. “Come, let us walk alone.” He winked at my mother; her frown eased. She beckoned my sisters. “We’ll wait for you in the solar,” she said, and with my father at my side, I went out into the bailey.

THE WHITE-HOT SUN
scorched the cobblestones. I winced, searching my pocket for a ribbon to tie back my hair. My father reached out to coil the heavy mass in a knot at my nape. “I used to do that for my mother,” he murmured. “She had hair like yours, thick as a mare’s mane. It was her only vanity—after her love for me, of course.”

I threw myself into his arms. “I’ve missed you so.”

“I missed you too,
madrecita.
” As I felt his callused fingers stroke my neck, I had to bite back the humiliating tears that were never far from my eyes these days.

I drew back. “I didn’t see Juan in the hall. Did he not come with you?”

“I left him resting in Segovia, though you’ll be happy to know that while in Aragón, he made quite an impression. He so astonished my Cortes with his erudition, they were rendered speechless, a rare event for them. But the trip back to Castile has tired him.”

I nodded in painful understanding. Juan’s health was a constant concern. In Castile, a woman could inherit the throne, as my mother had, but Aragón abided by the statutes of Salic Law, which prohibited female succession. Should, God forbid, Juan die before he wed and sired a male heir, Castile and Aragón could be torn apart once again.

My father shielded his brow with his hand. “By the saints, it’s hot as Hades. Let’s go into the shade before you break out in freckles. We can’t have a spotted bride on our hands.”

I turned away. He took my chin, brought my face back to his. “Are those tears I see?”

I wiped at my eyes. “It must be the dust,” I muttered. “I hate this time of year in Castile. There are dust and bugs everywhere.”

“Indeed,” he remarked, and he steered me to a bench under the portcullis’s shadow. Perched beside him, I was acutely aware of his strength, which he exuded, like a bull.

He cleared his throat. “I must speak of an important matter.” He looked at me intently. He had a puckered scar on his temple, and the cast in his eye that I had inherited—only his was pronounced—made it look as if he were squinting. I thought him the most handsome man I’d seen, nonetheless, because when he looked at me, it was as if I was all he wanted to see.

“I know this union with the archduke has brought you no joy,” he said. “Your mother tells me you were most upset, and spend all your free time wandering about like a lost soul.”

I grimaced. “What free time? I scarcely have a minute to go to the privy, I’m so busy trying to learn my French and perfect my music and dance.”

“So, is that where you were earlier, learning your French? Come now, will you not open your heart to me? You know I won’t chastise you.”

His words softened the defenses I’d hidden behind since learning of my betrothal. “I don’t mean to be difficult,” I said with a catch in my voice. “I realize how important this marriage is.”

“But you’d rather wed a Spaniard, or so your mother says.”

“Spain is home. I can’t imagine leaving. And if I marry the archduke, I will have to leave.”

He sighed. “As different as you and your mother are, you share this one thing: Isabel also loves Spain, with all her heart. Sometimes, I think, more than anything else on this earth.”

Hearing an old pain in his voice, I said, “Then we are not so alike, for I love you more than anything else.”

His smile revealed uneven teeth. “You live up to your name. Not only do you look like my mother, but you are loyal, just like her.”

“Am I really?” I liked being compared to my namesake, the late queen. Though she died before my birth, her passion for Aragón and my father was renowned. It was said she’d connived to have him wed my mother years before my parents met, foreseeing they would share a greater destiny together than if they ruled apart.

“You are. To my mother, devotion to country was the most important thing in life. She told me, it’s the only love that lasts.” He patted my hand. “That is why if you don’t want to wed the archduke, we’ll not force you. No matter how important this marriage may be, I’ll not abide it if it makes you unhappy.”

I sat in silence, pondering his words. When I failed to feel the overwhelming relief I’d expected, I asked, “Mamá spoke of France threatening Aragón and our need to prove our power. Is that true?”