The Last Queen (23 page)

regarded me with attentive patience, demonstrating his years of service to a busy

queen, in which he‟d often been made to wait. At length, he said, “Your Highness

appears troubled. I would not wish to be forward, but I hope you know you can rely

on me should you feel the need.”

I smiled. “My mother always said that you are noble of heart.”

“I am humbled by Her Majesty‟s favor,” he said, with true humility. “She has

fought with a tenacity that exceeds any man‟s for the good of Spain. We are blessed to

have her as our queen.”

I was silent. Only now did I begin to recognize how much I would have to prove

myself, how heavy was the crown I would one day inherit. I turned my goblet in my

hands, thinking of how much at peace this great man of action seemed to be with

silence. It presented a startling, somewhat disquieting, contrast to the fripperies and

swaggering of my husband‟s court.

“My mother,” I finally ventured, “she is well, yes?”

I could not ask outright if our visit to France had upset her enough to awaken

reservations about entrusting her hard-earned throne to Philip. The contemplative

hesitation in the admiral‟s face made me think it had; he confirmed my unvoiced fear

when he said, “Her Majesty has been troubled of late. The
grandes
have been acting up again, seeking their advantage as usual in her suffering. She took your brother‟s death

particularly hard. Many say she hasn‟t been the same since. But she continues to do

her duty for Spain. In that, she will never waver.”

“Yes, I murmured. I looked into his eyes. “And she never expected this day would

come.”

He understood. “She did not. Yet you are still her flesh and blood.”

“Has she―” I swallowed. “Has she said anything about my husband?”

“No.” He glanced at my hands, twining about the goblet stem. “But others have,”

he added, and I drew back. “Villena,” he went on, “Your Highness saw him, did you

not? He is one of our most proud and troublesome of the nobles, and I fear he carries

influence with many. He had been vocal about his displeasure that a Habsburg who

made a peace with France will become our king consort. His Highness has much

goodwill to win here if he‟s to be accepted.”

“He‟s not a bad man,” I said quickly, feeling the urgent need to protect my

husband from Spain‟s ancient aversion to foreigners, born from centuries of enduring

invaders like the Moors. “He‟s young and he labors under the less-than-exemplary

guidance.”

“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 ashamed. 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 arrive 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 ruin.”

“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 mesena opened before us like an

offering, cloaked in tender grass. The Ebro and the 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 the 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 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 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 roses drifting to me from some unseen vine.

Home. It intoxicate 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 dismounted 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

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 course 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 that 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.”

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 served 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, indicated he‟d heard 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.

“Close the door,
madrecita,
” he said. When I turned to him I saw a nerve quiver in his left eye. That tell-tale 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 suite 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 not 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