Reign of Madness (18 page)

20.

22 November anno Domini 1502

T
he rain drummed on the roof of the carriage. Although the leather curtains had been tightly fastened, a cold dampness blanketed the close dark space, sealing in a pungent miasma of madame de Hallewin’s sharp breath, the acrid stink of the moldering old tome that Beatriz read, and the sour smell of my own anxiety.

“He should be here soon.” Beatriz marked her place in the book with her finger and leaned forward as if to peer out the covered window.

She had expressed the same opinion since morning, when the carriage had first rolled to a stop outside the village of Blois. It did me no more good to hear these words now than it did when she first spoke them, the day I had left Paris in a fury. Philippe had acted amused that I should be angry about the two young French things he had dandled on his lap at our dinner in Paris, winking at our host as if my humiliation were part of the entertainment. I had expected him to follow when I stormed out, but I was soon disabused of that notion. I left Paris on my own and had waited in country lodgings surrounded by silent Burgundian ladies angry at being torn from the festivities, while a parade of familiar emotions tramped through my gut.

“Philippe will be here in his own good time,” said madame de Hallewin. “Since he was a boy, he has always done things his own way.”

“That does not necessarily make it the right way,” said Beatriz.

“I don’t question him,” madame de Hallewin said lightly. “He is Archduke, is he not?’ ”

Their bickering did not help me. Philippe could do whatever he wanted, and there was nothing I could do about it, except perhaps hate him, just a little, in the bottom of my heart.

A faint blast of trumpets sounded in the distance. I sat up.

Beatriz untied a side of the curtain. At that moment, lightning illuminated the growing darkness, and through the veil of rain I could see the church towers on the hill above. Behind the church, I knew from staring at it throughout the day, sat the stony bulk of the palace, where the King of France awaited. We were four days late, thanks to my husband’s reluctance to leave the pleasures of Paris.

“Close it,” I said.

The trumpets sounded again. Now the ground vibrated with pounding hooves. Across the river, a church bell tolled five as Beatriz straightened my headdress. The carriage driver saluted aloud; the door groaned open on leather hinges. Philippe swung onto the seat before me.

My anger, shame, and fright distilled to a single rush of emotion: relief. Even in this new era of my disillusionment, Philippe still had the power to bring me to my knees.

“By Saint John, it stinks,” he said. “How long have you been in here?”

It was a headdress of great value, with pearl-encrusted lappets, and rubies lining the edge of the short black velvet hood. The Queen of France had sent it for me to wear to the banquet that night.

I had not brought her a present of such value. Where would I have gotten the funds for it? Philippe controlled my monies and paid only those whom he wished to pay—my Burgundian ladies and servants who were loyal to him. The others I had to pay using my dwindling store of jewels. The ermine-trimmed gown that I wore was a gift from him. My own dressmaker, a kind man with thirteen children, had stopped coming on my orders—I could no longer pay him. No doubt Philippe had brought lavish gifts for the King and Queen, but would present them himself as examples of his own largesse and power. But I could not accept a gift like this without giving one of equal value in return—not if I and the Spains wished to appear to be the equal of Anne of Brittany and France.

“I wish to wear my own headdress.”

Germaine of Foix, the young slip of a girl charged with presenting the gift, looked doubtfully at the glittering jewels on the French hood, then up at my head, as if trying to figure out how to get the piece upon it. She was a pretty thing, in a childish way, with the large eyes of a startled woodland creature and a wet red mouth that she seemed incapable of closing.

“My husband prefers to see me in my own attire,” I explained. “My trunk over there—the headdress is in it.”

She went over, opened the carved lid, then lifted out the headdress, raising it high for its long veil to clear the edge of the trunk. “But it is so—” She stopped when she saw my look. Her mouth eased open guiltily, as though she had been caught with her hand in the sweetmeats jar. Although of noble birth, she was too young and naive to have learned to control her face. She would not last long at this court.

“Spanish? Yes, it is.”

“Oh, I did not mean anything,” she said hurriedly. “Spanish things are quite nice. I hear the Spains are a lovely place, so very sunny. You are not plagued by the dreary rains that go on here for days and days. It gets so very damp in all these layers of finery.” She glanced at my clothing, then bit her lip. “Of course, you do not wear so many. . . .” She crumpled her milky brow in thought, then brightened, seemingly proud to think of a diplomatic end to her rambling. “Perhaps you should save your headdress for when you will be dining with your husband.”

“I’m not to see him tonight?”

“
Non, Madame.
The King has prepared a special entertainment for the Archduke.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “Nothing that a lady would like.”

Groomed and dressed, I wondered what this special entertainment would be that I would so definitely not like. I was still wondering as I was led down torchlit halls, my retinue behind me in a train of swishing skirts. How long would we have to tarry at this court? Each day away from my children was a torture.

We burst into the brilliance of a chamber lit with silver candelabra as tall as men. Their light danced against the scarlet satin of the walls. At the far end of the room, surrounded by ladies in dresses picked out with sparkling jewels, sat a small plump young woman about my age: Anne of Brittany, the Queen of France.

Mademoiselle Germaine, holding my train, whispered, “You must curtsey, Madame!”

The Queen was not a crowned queen but a queen consort. Her greatest title was Duchess of Brittany. My title as Archduchess outranked hers. Furthermore, she was the daughter not of kings, but of a duke and his wife. It was for her to curtsey to me.

I continued walking.

“Madame,”
Germaine whispered.
“Non! Non!”

I felt a tug on my shoulders as my train unfurled; Germaine had let go of it. If I were Anne of Brittany’s lesser, I should carry my train myself as I approached—a sign of my deference. But I was not her lesser. Even if Philippe worshipped the French court, and treated me with mindless disrespect, I was the daughter of Isabel of Castile and Fernando of Aragón. If I did not stand up for myself now, who ever would? I continued with hesitant steps, my train dragging behind me.

A tall older woman with a sharp nose and the shiny black eyes of an ermine stood by the side of the Queen Consort: the sister of the King, Anne of Beaujeu. She positioned herself behind me as I came to a stop before the Queen. Her Majesty’s herald announced my name.

At that moment I felt a shove against my back. I fell. The gems in my skirts dug into my knees like pebbles.

“No matter what they taught you in that barbaric land of your birth,” the King’s sister said into my ear, “in France we bow before our Queen.”

I looked around at the woman. Her eyes shone with malice. “What are you going to do, girl, when there is no one here to save you?”

“I do not need saving.”

“With that husband of yours? I should think so.” She gave a throaty laugh. “I suppose he leads you on a merry dance.”

I wished to slap her weasel’s face. “You may tell the Queen Consort that the heir to the Spanish throne has arrived.”

The girl queen looked at her handler, unsure of what to do.

“Kiss her hand!” the King’s sister ordered me.

When I did not move quickly enough, she pushed my head onto the little queen’s plump outstretched hand.

“How does French flesh taste?” the King’s sister asked when I fought to rise. “Get a good taste.”

She let me up. I wiped my mouth, tears of fury stinging my ears.

She smiled at my discomfort. “It is very sweet, yes? Ask your husband. He would know.”

21.

23 January anno Domini 1502

I
t was cold, and getting colder. Pellets of ice hissed against the carriage. I inched deeper under the lynx-fur robe with Beatriz as we busied ourselves translating Aesop. We were nearing the Spanish border. I had not spoken with Philippe in twenty-two days.

We had fought when we left Blois, from the moment King Louis, his narrow greasy face debonair with a long-toothed smile, had handed me into the carriage with a kiss and a wave, and Philippe had swung himself inside after. Philippe waited until the crunch of cobbles under our wheels became the thudding of wood against mud, then turned to me, his mouth twisted with cold contempt.

“Madame, just what kind of game were you playing at?”

The first time alone since we had arrived at the French court, and this was how he spoke to me.

“An odd question from someone who loves his games. Every time I asked where you were, it was, ‘His Majesty plays at cards.’ Or, ‘His Majesty plays at tennis.’ Or, ‘His Majesty plays at chess.’ Meanwhile I was being tortured by the French ladies when I wasn’t attending Mass, Mass, and more Mass.”

“You would think you would enjoy that, with your Spanish zest for wallowing in Mary’s tears and the Sorrowful Mysteries. But not even in church could you handle yourself correctly. Don’t think I didn’t hear about it. You insulted Louis’s wife. How was I to face him after that?”

“She gave me money to offer for alms, Philippe.”

“And so did Louis to me.”

I looked away, sickened by the anger in his face. Lords gave their vassals coins to offer for alms. It was a show of power and prestige, and to accept the coins, one acknowledged one’s own servility. I was not going to take the money from that girl, no matter what Philippe said. Especially with the King’s hateful sister watching eagerly for me to show my submission. Very well, perhaps I had made it worse by stalling in my pew after the little Queen Consort had stormed out in anger. I had hoped that by letting her go I could avoid a confrontation. I never thought she would stick with etiquette and wait for me in the narthex, though good manners dictated that she not leave the chapel without her guest. Her face was as red as a ripe boil when I finally left the church half an hour later. Her henchman, Anne of Beaujeu, had grabbed me by the arm.

“We offer you alms to give and you’re too arrogant to take them. Are you too good to give to the poor?”

“I shall always give to the poor. It is the rich who trouble me.”

“The whelp of the Spanish bitch Isabel is as rude as her dam.” She had given me a shake before letting go.

Now Philippe said, “These are Charles’s future in-laws, Madame, not varlets on the street. You cannot treat them however you choose with this mistaken sense of superiority that you have. What makes you think you are better than they are? Because your mother is King? You must think little of me, a mere archduke. Perhaps I’m not rich enough for your blood.”

“I’ve told you before that I don’t care about that.”

“And then you came to dinner in that Spanish dress. I heard that the Queen had given you a rich veil but you refused to wear it. You show up looking like a nun instead. What is wrong with you?”

And this from the man who would not pay my dressmaker.

“You were with women,” I said.

“Where did that come from? Anyhow, no, I wasn’t.”

“You were. Katrien told me when I forced it out of her. One of the King’s laundresses talked.”

“You will not bow down to a queen, yet you believe what a laundress would say?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have a problem, not I.”

I rubbed my gloved knuckle with my thumb.

He took my chin, then turned my face roughly. “I have not been with other women, understand?”

I met his gaze. “Just saying something does not make it true.”

He tightened his fingers on my chin, squeezing into the bone. “I liked you better when you kept your mouth shut.”

I would not acknowledge that he was hurting me. “I liked you better when you did not lie to me.”

He increased his grip until his forearm shook. “Now that you’ve moved up in the world, do you need taking down a notch?”

Tears of pain seeped into my eyes. I wished to slap off his hand, though if I did, I feared, he would strike my face.

He let go.

My chin throbbed as if he were still pinching it.

He patted my head. “You were always a good girl. Stay that way.”

A salty lump seared my throat as he settled against the side of the carriage. I choked on it, scarcely able to breathe until he fell asleep, exhausted, no doubt, from his festive week.

After that, he had ridden with Hendrik and the Archbishop of Besançon, taking a different route. Beatriz entered my conveyance to accompany me, and cried out when she saw the red mark on my chin.

I lowered my face as she sat next to me on the upholstered velvet seat. “What happened!” she exclaimed.

“I bumped against the carriage.”

I could feel her staring. “Your mother is going to ask about this.”

“It will be gone before I see her.”

She said no more until the carriage rumbled forward. “I speak of this only because you need to prepare yourself for her questions. Your discord with the Archduke will look bad to the Cortes.”

“I don’t care.”

“I thought you wanted Charles to be heir to the throne.”

I did. It was my dream for Charles to be King of Spain one day, not just the husband of a French princess. If he was king, no one would dare make sport of his malformed jaw. They would revere and respect him for the man he was, not for what he looked like.

“If you cannot bill and coo like lovebirds,” said Beatriz, “at least you could adopt a symbol of your marriage that gives the impression of a happy union.”

“Like Mother’s yoke and Papa’s arrows. There is not a building in the Spains upon which they are not plastered.”

“The Queen and King are wise. They know that people like to have something to believe in, no matter whether it is based upon the truth or not.”

I glanced at her.

“Of course, their legend is one that is based upon the truth,” she said quickly.

I had never told her about Papa’s assignation in the chapel in Barcelona. It was not something I could talk about. But I had come to realize that anyone with eyes could see the trouble in my parents’ marriage, although few got beyond the myth of their great love. It seemed that the legend carried more weight than did the truth.

“What shall the symbols of our marriage be?” I asked her. “A fountain to represent Philippe and his constant spurting forth? And perhaps a bucket for me, to collect his spilling seed?”

She sighed, then produced from her valise a volume of Aesop’s fables. We spent the rest of the day, and the following ones, translating it from Latin. How soothing Aesop was. How neatly he observed human behavior, suggesting solutions in small, sweet tales, as if the worst that could happen to us was to be bitter about something we could not have, or to call alarm so often that others would not heed us in the case of real emergency.

We were working on the tale “The North Wind and the Sun,” Beatriz with her portable writing instruments and desk, I with the book on my lap, the lynx robe tucked over us, when a great clattering sounded outside the carriage. Up rose the shouts of men, calling their horses to slow.

Beatriz undid the curtain, letting in a frigid sleet-laden wind. She stuck out her head.

Pellets of ice clung to her headdress when she pulled back inside. “There’s water ahead—a river feeds into a bay.”

The border of Mother’s kingdom in the Basque lands lay on the Bidasoa River where it flowed into the Bay of Biscay. After weeks of inching along the muddy roads of France, could we have reached the first of the Spains?

The carriage rumbled on more slowly, until, with a thud, the wheels struck wood. We jostled as our conveyance clattered over the timbers of the pontoon bridge. Another thud, and the wheels thumped once more in mud. We were on the other side.

A cry went up to stop our train. Beatriz pulled back the curtain to take another look. “You will not believe this—there are mules out there. Scores of them, with muleteers. In this snowstorm!”

I smiled sadly, remembering how the thought of a muleteer would make my sister María swoon, as she pictured our handsome papa stealing to Mother. My dear María, such a believer in love and romance. A little over a year earlier, she had been made to marry our own sister Isabel’s widowed husband, the stern King of Portugal, her elder by thirteen years. She was now due to be delivered of her first child, at which time she would successfully fulfill the reason for their union. Her much-dreamed-of love match had been a marriage of political necessity.

Trumpets sounded. The door opened. My heart jolted at the appearance of Philippe’s elegant fur-robed figure, framed by the icy gray light. Behind him the grainy curtain of sleet was turning into soft pats of snow.

“It seems, Madame, that your parents try to control us even in the middle of nowhere. They have sent mules onto which they insist we transfer our baggage and ourselves. They think our carriages cannot master the mountains ahead.”

By the sound of it, luggage was already being transferred from cart to mule. Philippe scowled. “What kind of country are we to rule, where nobles ride mules like basest plowmen?”

Hendrik rode up, wrapped in a blanket to which the snow was rapidly sticking. He glanced at Philippe, then searched my face.

“Look at the beasts they give us,” Philippe said. “In Maxi’s northern lands, we ride sleighs through the mountains. Handsome, bell-trimmed sleighs, loaded with heavy furs, and pulled by teams of matching horses. What kind of person rides a donkey to meet his people?”

Hendrik shrugged. “Christ?”

Our train rode into the mountains. I was faint with hunger and cold when at last the mules descended to the town of Segura, where hundreds of Vizcayans, wrapped in furs and covered in snow, waited at the town walls.

Philippe dropped back for me to join him. “Hurry, Madame. Our subjects await us. I hope they’ve readied a hot bowl of caudle. Or do you have such a thing in this godforsaken place?”

I hardly heard him. At that moment the pain in my frozen toes and cheeks mattered little, and likewise the ache of bracing myself in my jolting seat for many hours, and even the sorrow of knowing that our love had grown cold. For over the hooded heads of the welcoming cortege hung a flag whose castles and lions were discernible despite the falling snow. The flag of the Catholic Kings.

I was home.