Reign of Madness (16 page)

The party soon tired of the picture, and found their way back to Hendrik’s special bed. I was not one of them. I was looking out the window at the moonlit forest spreading down Coudenberg hill, remembering the orange full moon smoldering in the blue-velvet skies of Toledo. If only I could go home again.

Philippe came over and kissed my neck, startling me out of my reverie.

“Puss. Come here.” He grabbed my breasts.

I cried out in pain.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I put my hands to my breasts, still radiating with pain. A green wave surged over my body.

“I think I’m going to be ill.”

16.

15 November anno Domini 1498

S
o you are the one whose limbs pushed hard knobs out of my belly, as if a leggy fawn were curled inside me instead of a child. You are the one who tugged on my entrails when you shifted during that final month, though I thought you were clever—you could knock a plate resting on my belly. You were the one who amused me with your hiccups. From the days when you were but a flicker of butterfly wings, you were always on my mind, the inhabitant of all my dreams, though I could never imagine your face. And now I see you, my dear mysterious companion. You look at me with the same wonder with which I look at you.

The Viscountess of Furnes leaned over us, forcing her scent of lavender into our sacred space. “How sweet. A girl.”

I raked the cloth-of-gold blanket higher upon my legs. So much gold thread had gone into its weaving that it was useless against the cold air seeping through windows and walls. Only its deep trim of ermine was warm. Philippe had it specially made for my recuperation . . . when he thought the child might be a boy.

Beatriz edged from behind the Viscountess. “She looks like you, Your Highness.”

I gazed at the child sleeping in my arms. She had my rounded forehead and Papa’s dark hair and eyes, and traces of pouches at the corners of her lips, just like Philippe’s. These things made me love her more, though I would have loved her even had she looked like a griffin.

“Has the Archduke been in to see her yet?” the Viscountess asked.

I touched my daughter’s fingers. How could they be so perfect yet so small? Philippe had come in the hour before her birth. He had stood by, mouth open, while I gritted my teeth against the blue-black pain gripping my loins. I had no control—my womb was in a vise being cranked by a devil. And then, the pain had let go. Released, I gasped for air.

Philippe had come forward. “Are you well?”

I glanced at the midwife, who was pouring water into a cup. Katrien knelt by the fire, feeding it sticks. I had ordered my other ladies out, even Beatriz, whose terrified face frightened me, and my husband’s gentlemen, too, not wanting any of them to see me, though it was their privilege to do so. My mother had asked for a handkerchief to cover her face to hide her terrible expressions, while allowing the nobles their right to keep vigil at her birthing bed. But I was not my mother. I had not her courage. Never had I felt such pain and such fear. How did I survive the relentless gripping? What if the baby stayed stuck in my womb until it died, and then I? Or if it came out and the bleeding of my torn womb could not be stanched? My sister Isabel had died in such a manner. Three months earlier, in August, a fact about which I had been informed in a tear-stained letter from María. Still, I could not imagine. Bossy, dear, imperious Isabel—gone? It could not be. I could not bear to think of her suffering. And now my own pains were worse, much worse, than I had ever imagined they could be.

All persons in this world have put their mother through this pain?

“You’re doing fine, Puss.” Philippe took my hand. “A little longer, and we will have a son.”

A son. I could not promise him that. I could not promise him a live child, or even a live wife.

“My father is coming. From Innsbruck.” Philippe kissed my knuckles. “He wishes to celebrate the birth of the heir to his lands and the Spains.”

My brain was weak from exhaustion. I could not think how our child could possibly be the heir, even if he were a male child. My sister Isabel had died, but her infant had survived. A boy, Miguel. He would be King. I had heard this from the Spanish ambassador.

Why had Mother not written me these things herself? By now she must have received my letters, the first of which I had written nearly a year previously.

“Our son is not—We are not the true heirs. Baby Miguel is.” At that moment, the vise clamped down in my womb. Its iron grip screwed tighter and tighter, taking control of my body. I dug my nails into Philippe’s palm. He had caused this pain. It was his seed that had brought me to this state.

He wrenched my hand from his. “Ow. You hurt me.” He examined his palm as he backed away. “What is wrong with you?”

A scream burned my lungs as he fled from the room.

Now I pressed my daughter’s damp head to my lips, then met the gaze of the Viscountess of Furnes, looking upon me kindly. “I expect Philippe at any moment,” I said.

She touched my child’s fingers, the very soul of maternal sympathy, while dressed in a perfect silvered-blue gown, in the most current French style. The Viscountess had been absent a day here, a day there, during my confinement, days that coincided with Philippe’s absence from court. Her throat had plagued her, she said when I asked where she had been; she had a weakness in her throat. In her throat or her lips, I asked, to which she blinked in pretty confusion.

In my final month of confinement, Philippe’s visits dwindled further. Days would go by when I would wait for him, wait for him. I detained the Viscountess and she grew restless while in wait for him, as if she, too, worried about being eclipsed by another lady.

“Where have you been, Monseigneur?” I asked him when he appeared after a four-day absence. It was a bright afternoon in early November. The sunlight made rainbows on the edges of the windowpanes; a blackbird sang outside. I was buried alive, a swollen, living corpse, while the world was burgeoning above my grave.

Philippe shrugged, rustling the puffy tops of his sleeves. “Nowhere. Just hunting.”

“What did you catch?”

“Ducks. A crane. The usual. Why?”

“Did Delilah catch the crane?”

He paused. “Yes. Yes, she did.”

“Who accompanied you?”

“Hendrik, François—why do you ask these silly questions?” He bent down and kissed my forehead.

His familiar scent, the warmth of him near, loosened my tongue. “I am going mad, Philippe. I cannot bear these four walls.”

“You’ll be better once you’ve had our son.” He sighed deeply. “François awaits with some papers. I must go.”

I grabbed Philippe’s hand. “What shall we name him?”

“Who?”

“Our son.”

He shrugged. “Philippe.”

“Yes. Or Juan. After my brother.”

“We’ll see. I must go.”

I clung to his hand. “Your
grand-mère
wants to call him Charles, after her husband.”

“Like hell.” He pulled out of my grip. “I’ll be back.”

Five days passed before he returned.

I now gathered the baby out of the Viscountess’s reach. She pulled back in oh-so-humorous offense. “New mother,” she said.

Katrien came over, wiping her hands. “Mevrouw, may I bring you some watered wine?”

“I’ll get it,” said the Viscountess. “Flemish trash,” she muttered under her breath. “Attending to the little mother is Beatriz’s job,” she said aloud. “Where is that strange bird?”

I tipped my head to get the Viscountess out of my sight, and drank in my baby’s smell, sweet as blood. Surely the perfection of this child—her gray-blue eyes, her tuft of black hair, the tiny pouches by her lips—would be taken into account by those who would call me a failure.

17.

26 December anno Domini 1498

A
cold wind flapped the yellow velvet hangings under which I sat and the lappets of my headdress. Out on the boards of the lists, the flags snapped as if to be torn free and sent sailing into the crowd. I pulled my robe closer until the ermine collar brushed my lips. December, not the choicest month for a tournament. Not the choicest month for any activity in this cold, wet land, besides huddling before a roaring fire. But Philippe would have a tournament celebrating the birth,
now
—as he preferred all his activities, once he thought of them—and how could I complain when he told me that he had conceived of it to celebrate my churching. With the smell of ermine pelt in my nose, I clapped to the blast of six golden trumpets hung with my husband’s standards. A herald rode before the stands.

“I bring this from the hand of a mysterious lady!” He unrolled a parchment tied in yellow ribbon and read aloud. “‘To whoever receives this message: I am a fair and virtuous lady, held against my will by a giant. He wishes for my hand in marriage, but I have refused. Alas, he has taken my estates and locked me in a tower. I can be saved only by him who breaks one hundred and one lances in battle, or has one hundred and one lances broken against him, and then he must serve one hundred and one sword strokes, or have one hundred and one sword blows served against him. To him and him alone who endures this trial, the giant will release me from my tower. Until then, adieu.’ ”

Next to me, the Dowager tipped my way. “We had the very same play at my wedding, only bigger.”

Philippe came thundering out on a white destrier thickly caparisoned in quilted yellow brocade. The yellow plume atop his helmet whipped in the wind as he spoke.

“I shall save this lady. Who shall go against me?” His lance pointing toward the sky, he reared up his horse. Its hooves flashed against its padded skirt.

A gentleman plumed in green urged his warhorse before the stands, then threw down his plated gauntlet. “I shall.”

Philippe spread his free arm first to us in the stands, then to the crowd of city folk gathered on the other side of the lists. “It is done.”

The sun came out. Its reflection glinted off Philippe’s armor as he rode his horse to the far end of the lists, where his gentlemen lined up on their steeds, ready to take their place against him. How splendid he looked. He had not spared a
livre
on preparing for this tourney. Yet now, forty days after the birth of our child, he had not yet paid Leonor’s nurses. He had not paid for any of my household expenses since I had arrived in his realm, a fact I had stumbled upon as I prepared for my churching. When I had asked doña Eugenia what she would be wearing to the Mass, she ducked her bewhiskered face until at last she confessed she would not wear something new. When I questioned Beatriz, she said that there was no money. I was horrified to learn that neither she nor any of my three remaining Spanish ladies, let alone Leonor’s nurses, had been paid a
stuiver
for their expenses. None of them could pay for cloth, or shoes, or even tapers to carry into the service. Beatriz lifted her arm to show me her elbow. There was a hole in the coarse gray wool of the sleeve. The gown was the same one she had brought from the Spains.

I had turned to Katrien, washing the baby’s cloths by the fire. “Have you been paid?”

She ceased her rubbing. Her flushed face became even more red. “No, Mevrouw.”

He had not even paid the washerwoman? But he was to pay for my household expenses. This was part of the wedding agreement forged between Mother and Philippe’s father.

“How do you eat?”

Katrien bowed her head. “My uncle is one of the Archduke’s cooks. There are usually scraps.”

It was my turn to grow red. No wonder so many of my ladies had departed so very quickly—they were given neither support in their faith nor husbands, and now, I was learning, not even an allowance for their daily needs. Why had I not been told this? How could Philippe be so negligent? Had it been his purpose all along, to drive away those sympathetic to me and the Spains? Why would he do so? An icy chill gripped my guts. Who was this man?

“He’s coming!” said the Dowager.

Sand flew from the horses’ hooves. My husband and his challenger bore down on each other with pointed lances, their steeds separated only by a low wooden wall. I clenched my teeth. I hated the lists, hated seeing men flying at each other with lances. In the Spains, they threw darts made of cane at each other in tourneys—Mother had outlawed the lists. She refused to lose a single man in the name of sport. Papa had only smiled at her womanly weakness, but my brother Juan openly complained.

Lance crashed upon lance with a tremendous crack. When I opened my eyes, the splintered lance of Philippe’s opponent was falling to the sand.

The herald shouted: “One lance for our Archduke!”

The Dowager batted at her sheer veil. “One hundred to go.”

Another gentleman trotted out to challenge my husband. Again they rode hard; lances crashed; Philippe galloped away, his lance unbroken, the yellow scarf on its tip flitting in the wind.

All this yellow. My color was crimson. I looked down my row of ladies. Which one wore yellow? Not madame de Hallewin in her russet. Nor the Viscountess in her perfect silvered blue. Not one of my ladies, Burgundian or Spanish, wore yellow, nor could I remember any doing so, although since Leonor was born my brain did trick me. But Philippe’s eye would not necessarily be restricted to my ladies. He could have taken as a lover any woman in the land.

The spark of suspicion grew like fire. I looked out across the tiltyard to the townsfolk of Brussels. In the sea of white winged headdresses, might one of these women be his lover? I saw a familiar face—Katrien. She stood with a balding man whose visage, even rounder than hers, bore similarities in the thick cheekbones and brows. Perhaps it was her uncle from the kitchen.

Behind her, a pretty girl stood on her tiptoes and shaded her eyes against the sun. A blond, like my husband. She looked to be fifteen or so, with full lips and large eyes. Already fresh-faced, her color was heightened by the wind.

Had Mother felt this madness? Had she cast her gaze over a crowd, wondering which might be her husband’s current lover? She had not replied to any of my letters. Yes, I deserved to be punished for not writing her sooner, but I needed her now. I was isolated and lonely and given to wild thoughts.

A loud splintering announced the third clash. I glanced up in time to see Philippe again ride free.

“You aren’t watching,” said the Dowager.

I looked at the lists. My husband was circling back from unseating another gentleman. The fresh-faced girl teetered on her toes, trying to get a look. Suddenly she stood down from her tiptoes, blushing. Philippe was peering her way.

Jealousy and fear flamed inside me. Where had he met her? Where were their assignations? He had rutted and roistered with no care to anyone, while I had languished, unloved, on my lonely bed.

Philippe shouldered his lance and rode to the end of the lists. I watched the girl, despising her innocent pink face. Hooves pounded below. There came a thud. A gasp went up. Philippe sprawled on the ground, his opponent trotting uneasily away.

Philippe took off his helmet, and the padded cap underneath, then shook out his hair. The girl came forward through the crowd.

I jumped to my feet. “Stop!”

The word echoed from the stands. Into the stillness rang the jingle of reins, a muffled cough. Rich, poor, townsman, peasant, all gazes were upon me. The girl drew back.

A page ran forth and pulled Philippe up. Sand crunching below his steel-shod feet, he approached my dais with his helmet under his arm. “Did you say something, Madame?”

“I beg of you, Monseigneur, stop this tourney.”

“I have only just started.” He turned and raised his arm to the crowd, who roared with approval. He turned to me. “And as you see, they desire it.”

I could feel the blade of the Dowager’s stare upon my back.

I groped for an explanation. “Monseigneur, I fear for your safety.”

He laughed, then spread his arm to the crowd. “My wife fears for me. Womanly worries.”

“Monseigneur, I fear for the safety of my child’s father.”

He glanced around. The slight pouches at his mouth puckered with tamped-down annoyance. “Is My Lady unhappy?”

I did not know how to answer. I sensed I was doing wrong. But how did I turn back?

“Yes. Please, Monseigneur. Stop.”

“For My Lady, anything. And for our child, as well.” He bowed to me, and then to the crowd, before mounting his horse. As he galloped toward the palace, the cheers made it hard for me to hear the Dowager’s hissing in my ear.

“Stupid chit. Do you not realize what you have done? Your producing a girl child has unmanned him. Was it not enough shame when his father turned back to Innsbruck when he heard there was no boy? Philippe called this tourney to bolster his image in the eyes of his people—in his own eyes, too. Now look what you’ve done.”

“He shames me!” I sought a reason that I could voice. “He wears another woman’s yellow.”

“Do you have a brain? If you’d listen to your French as you spoke it, even with your clumsy Spanish accent, you would realize how close
‘jaune’
sounds to ‘Jeanne.’ The
jaune
pennants were to honor you, which even you would have understood, had you let him finish. You were the mysterious fair and virtuous lady he was going to free at the end of the tourney. He was going to present you with a nice fat emerald worth four hundred
livres
.”

I smiled woodenly as the other gentlemen rode past, tipping their helmets. Dear Lord, I no longer knew: Who was my husband? A heartless man? Or a lonely boy?