The Last Queen (29 page)

Spain are the Cortes and the council. Sometimes she has no choice but to obey,

though she wears the crown.”

A chill spread through me. He bowed his head again, opened the door and left. As

I heard his footsteps fade away, I reached with a trembling hand for the back of a

chair.

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isneros departed two days later as abruptly as he had appeared. But his

company of sixty-odd retainers stayed, turning my congenial household

C overnight into a barracks. Cloistered in my rooms with my son‟s cradle (for a

feared a nefarious scheme to perhaps kidnap him away from me) my ladies and I

adopted the defensiveness of women under siege.

The subsequent arrival of my mother‟s secretary, Lopez, did not relieve my fears.

He seemed happy to see me, as always, and while a little more bald and careworn, just

as he had done when in Flanders he tried to ease my strain and answer all my

questions. He reassured me my mother was well, but she had a difficult time with her

Cortes, and there was no word yet from my husband. Though he spoke with

conviction, I detected a new flicker of wariness in his tone. My mother had personally

sent him to serve me, he added, and he set himself to his secretarial role, penning my

letters and faithfully dispatching them by courier. I know he did, because I always

received the same impassive reply: Patience. I must have patience. Her Majesty would

be with me as soon as she could. Until then, there was nothing to be done. Winter

was upon us and I couldn‟t travel now. I must wait until spring. If I was in want of

anything, I need only request it. Certainly, La Mota must be provisioned for what

promised to be a long, bitter season.

None of these replies were in my mother‟s hand, though each carried her seal, and

as the days came and went, my suspicions spiraled to a near-feverish pitch. I wasn‟t

under lock and key; I was free to come and go, as were my women. Yet lest there be

any doubt as to where matters stood, the archbishop‟s retainers guarded the barbican

and main portcullis day and night. There was no way I could leave without first going

through them.

Every day I took the ramparts. Wrapped in a mantle, I stood for hours, looking

up the darkening sky where snow-laden clouds converged and lone hawks circled with

remorseless deliberation, seeking their pray in the tall grasses below, before winter

finally set in.

I felt a pit opening inside me, terrible and all-consuming. I wanted to believe

something had happened, a diplomatic mishap that required my mother‟s full

attention. Such matters had been kept from me in the past: I‟d not been told at first

about the death of Catalina‟s husband or of the outbreak of the war in Naples.

Though it infuriated me that she still felt I must be spared the realities of this world

like a child, it didn‟t mean she lied to me. I told myself this over and over, because I

couldn‟t bear the thought that she delayed and delayed until she could delay no more.

I gripped the stone merlon before me.

Dear God, what if Philip had been right? I‟d placed all my trust in my mother. I

defended her, even schemed for her, rousing my own husband‟s mistrust and enmity.

Philip believed she and my father had murdered Besançon. What if they had? God

knew, she was capable of it. When it came to defending Spain, she was capable of

anything. Philip had said she would never let me rule, that she‟d lured us here because

she wanted to get her hands on our son Charles, a prince she could mold into a king

worthy to succeed her. That we had not brought Charles had been a blow to her

plans, but now I‟d given her a son, another chance.

I spun away from the empty plain laid out before me, pacing to the ramparts over

the barbican that looked out over the main road. I was going mad. It was not possible.

She was my mother. She would never do such a thing to me. But my fear still unfurled

like a map in my head, a map of lies and deceit. I was in La Mota, an impregnable

fortress. What had first seemed a logical choice, a castle in central Castile, from where I might travel to several cities or ports, now felt like a trap. Did my mother want me

isolated? Did she seek to stop me from returning to Philip? He had shown himself

unalterable and had thrown her plans into disarray. Her Cortes might recognize him

as my prince-consort, but he could never make a claim without me. He would not be

king if I did not become queen. She and her procurators could pass a legislative

amendment barring Philip from the succession and making Fernando heir instead, a

Spanish-born prince of the Trastámara and Habsburg bloods, reared in Castile by his

grandmother. Through him, she would continue to rule even after her death. Through

him, Spain would be kept safe from the depredations of France.

But first, I must be dealt with. I had to disposed of, sacrificed for the good realm,

like my grandmother before me.

Sometimes, even a queen must act against her heart if she is to survive.

I let out a strangled gasp. I saw it now, as clear as if it had already occurred,

Cisneros and his mean stealing away my child and locking me away in this citadel. My

father was in Naples, fighting a war that could drag out for months. By the time he

returned, it would be done. My mother would hand him the new succession, with a

grandson to follow him in Aragón, not a daughter whose husband had caused him no

end of trouble. He might argue, even try to defend me, but in the end, she‟d win. She

always won. Without Castile to protect Aragón, he couldn‟t survive. The Castilian

nobles would rend him apart if Louis of France didn‟t get to him first.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, my panic rising to smother my very breath. I

almost didn‟t see the figure on horseback riding hard toward the castle. When I did, I

threw myself at the ramparts. Something inside me shifted. I dashed down the narrow

staircase into the castle corridor. I moved with determination, past closed doors and

empty galleries, making my way through the hall and out into the keep.

The retainer had gathered in groups around the braziers, sharing the heat and the

furtive passing of a wineskin. The rider entered through the portcullis. Visible puffs of hot breath wafted from his nostrils as he dismounted. A young man, with a satchel

slung across his shoulders: our weekly courier, who conveyed our correspondence.

This would be one of his final visits, if not the last. When snow began to fall, the

roads would become impossible.

I had only this one chance.

Lopez and other members of my household had gone into Medina del Campo to

fetch supplies. They could be gone several more hours or return any minute.

Throwing back my cowl, I came before the startled youth, who has handing over his

horse to a groom. When he saw me, he made a low, awkward bow. “Your Highness,

I― I bring missives for Secretary Lopez.”

The retainers idling in the keep paid us no mind. It was too cold, the days too

short. The monotony of their routine had lessened their vigilance and they were

accustomed to seeing me about it odd hours, for I often took long walks about the

castle, restless as a lioness.

I smiled at the youth. With his tousled fair hair under his cap and his wind-burned

cheeks, I estimated he was no more than sixteen or seventeen, the minor son of some

minor courtier, entrusted with the time-consuming, wearying task of conveying his

betters‟ letters.

“Lopez isn‟t here at the moment,” I said. “Have you come very far?”

“From Toledo.” He gave me a shy smile.

“Then you must be tired. Come, I‟ll have the kitchen prepare you some food.” I

forced out a laugh. “What was your master thinking to send you out on a day like

this?”

“My lord Cisneros doesn‟t inquire as to my preference, Your Highness.” He

grinned at me now. I espied his covert, inept glance over me. It wasn‟t every day a boy

like him got to see an infanta up close and his admiration was plain.

But all I thought of at that moment was the name of his master. He served

Cisneros. My letter, the reams of letters I‟d sent to my mother. Had they all gone to

Cisneros?

“Yes. I‟ve heard my lord the archbishop can be a hard taskmaster.” I leaned to

him, with a mischievous air. “Let me take your missives to Lopez‟s study.” I extended

my hand, wishing I had some coin to sweeten the office.

His moment‟s hesitation felt like an eternity. He looked away, his hand on the

leather strap of his satchel. He murmured, “I was instructed to give them only to

Secretary Lopez, Your Highness. My lord Cisneros was very clear.”

:Ah, but he didn‟t think you‟d meet your infanta, did he?” I heard myself say, and

I marveled at the lightness in my voice when all I felt was roaring inside. “It‟ll be our secret. Secretary Lopez won‟t know who left the letters, only that they came. I‟ll put

them just as you give them to me on his desk.” I kept my hand outstretched. I almost

moaned in relief after another moment‟s pause he reached into the satchel, bringing

out a packet wrapped in only waterproofed leather, secured with Cisneros‟s seal on

the cord.

I saw him off into the castle and his reward in the kitchen. Tucking the packet

under my cloak, I made my way to Lopez‟s study, a small room overlooking the keep.

Beatriz was in my rooms with Fernandito; my other servants were about their

business.

I moved to the desk. It was neat and orderly, like Lopez himself. I held the packet

in my hand. Then I retrieved the dagger on the desk and ripped under the cord,

breaking the seal. Papers scattered. My hands were trembling as I started to look

through them.

Receipts for provisions, payment vouchers for the retainers, approved lists of

supplies― there was nothing here but the commonplace day-to-day documents of a

royal household, all embossed with the crest of the See of Toledo, indicated receipt by

Cisneros‟s officers.

I fumbled over them again, returned to the large open square of oiled leather,

probing it with my fingers. Then I felt parchment. Sliding my nail under the secret

pocket on the underside of the leather pocket, I extracted a folded paper. It too was

sealed. I cracked the wax, my heart beating faster as I scanned meticulous hand-

writing. Isolated phrases jumped at me.

Her Highness must not be told. Her Majesty cannot be disturbed.

The words swam. I had to lean against the desk to focus. More of the same: I

must not be told. Something about a codicil, the utmost need for secrecy.

Then I saw a name that froze my blood:
Su Alteza Principe Felipe.

Philip.

I fixed my eyes on the letter.

His Highness Prince Philip has sent word again by courier, demanding to know why Her

Highness has not left Spain nor sent any word to him. He believes she is being held under duress and
threatens intervention should we fail to comply with his requests. Given his recent transactions in
France, we would do Spain a great injustice if we did not take his threats seriously. It is therefore
imperative that Her Highness be kept unaware until the proper time. Her Majesty’s illness is such
that she worries without cease, and while you have been entrusted to carry out her orders to the letter,
as her premier prelate I command that henceforth no correspondence of any sort is al owed Her
Highness. It would not serve Her Majesty at this late hour if Her Highness is to take some lunacy
into her head before the proper time. Only once Her Majesty has decided can you―

Inside me, something tenuous held together until now by the sheer force of my

will snapped. I felt it and was powerless to stop it. It rose into me like a molten wave.

Philip
had
written. He had asked for me. I had been right. All this time, the delays: it was all part of a trap to keep me prisoner. My mother had manipulated me as she had

since I was a child. Now she had me exactly where she wanted me, alone and

defenseless.

As I stood there, I saw Arévalo in my mind, the shuttered walls, and forgotten

loom in the corner, the hulking bed and my grandmother‟s haunted gaze, begging for

release. She must have felt like this on the day she finally realized the confines of

Arévalo were to be her entire existence, when she finally understood who was

responsible for her confinement.

Now it was my turn. I was to be my mother‟s captive and this castle my cage.

Lunging from behind the desk, the letter crushed in my fist, I raced down to the

corridor to my apartments. As I came crashing through the door, Beatriz let out a

frightened yelp, rising from her stool by the hearth where she‟d been mending a

petticoat. She took one look at my face and shooed Fernandito‟s nurse into the

antechamber, where my son‟s little nursery had been set up.

“
Mi princesa,
” she said, coming toward me. “What is it? What has happened?”

I brandished the letter in the air. “This is what has happened! She lied to me,

Beatriz. My own mother lied to me! She never meant to let me return to Flanders. She

seeks to keep me here forever, a prisoner. This letter from Cisneros proves it.”

Beatriz regarded the paper as though it might turn to flame. “Where did you find