The Last Queen (53 page)

throat. I found it strange that after everything I knew, everything he knew, he could

seem so reluctant.

Then it came, in a sudden taut burst: “There are malcontents among us who

would thwart the proper governance of this realm and plot treason. I will not tolerate

it.”

I gathered my strength from the pit of my stomach. I had heard this tale of

malcontents too many times before. “Are you certain? Who would have reason to

plot against you?”

He barked, “Are you questioning me?”

I thought suddenly of my children upstairs. If I feigned conformity, pretended to

be the pliant, submissive daughter he had always thought me, if I convinced him I

posed no threat, maybe he‟d leave me alone for today― a day to be with Catalina and

my son, a day of freedom.

Again, I felt the wild laughter rise in me and I forced myself to say, “I do not

question. I just want to know why you believe anyone would plot treason.”

“It is good you do not question,” he said, ignoring my own question. He paced

the room, his compact body emanating tension. He paused. Though I could not see

his eyes, I felt them aimed at me. “What would you say if I told you a king has asked

for your hand in marriage?”

Here it was. At last. I did not speak.

“Not just any king, mind you,” he added, and he had the audacity to actually

chuckle, “but one who enjoys great respect and prosperity.”

“Is that so?” I could scarcely hear my own voice. “And who is this great king?”

“The king of England,” he replied, and I went completely still. At first, I did not

believe my own ears. I almost laughed aloud then, in hysterical disgust. It was a joke.

It had to be.

“Henry Tudor has asked for me?”

“He has. Apparently, he was quite taken with you during your brief visit to

England. At the time, of course, any such proposal was out of the question. You were

wed and he a widower. But he now says he can think of nothing else and, after much

deliberation with his councilors, has decided to cast aside his mantle of widower to

offer a place at his side as his queen.”

“I see.” My fingers knotted in my lap. “I trust you told him it is out of the

question.”

His eyes narrowed. That telltale tick quivered. “Actually, I told him nothing of the

sort.” And he walked straight to me, so abruptly I felt my spine flatter against the

chair back. He stopped, reached into his cape and extracted an envelope. He dropped

it into my lap. “From His Grace Henry VII. He writes well, for an Englishman. I

suggest you read it.”

I did not touch the envelope. “I have no interest in what he has to say.”

My father chuckled again, only this time it was cold. “I‟d not be so hasty if I were

you. It could be that with some time and reflection, you‟ll find his proposal has

merits.”

All of a sudden, I pushed back my chair and stood, the envelope falling to the

floor. “I will see to some food. You are no doubt hungry after your ride here.”

I was about to walk away when he said, “It would be a dual marriage.”

I froze.

“Yes,” he added. “He says that if you consent to marry him, he will honor your

sister‟s betrothal to his heir, Prince Henry. Think of it. You shall be Queen of

England, and when your husband dies, Catalina will take your place. Two infantas on

the English throne; a lifelong alliance with Spain, not to mention his promise that

you‟ll dispose of a considerable income as his royal widow and a permanent place at

his son‟s court. Not a bad arrangement, if I do say myself. Better than living here with

your dead husband‟s coffin moldering in that chapel.”

I whirled about. “But not better than marrying France.”

His eyes widened.

“Yes,” I said. “I know about Germaine de Foix. You may do as you wish with

your person, Papá, but not with mine. How dare you lay before me, the queen of

Castile, this degrading proposal, using my own sister, your own
daughter,
as bait?”

“I merely state the facts.” His voice turned hard. “There are a few more for you to

consider: I need foreign support and my French alliance will provide it. So will the

English one. And the
grandes
will not suffer an unwed woman to rule over them. You are queen here in name alone, and only by my good grace. Had it not been for me,

they‟d have done away with you years ago.”

There was not a hint of compassion in his voice, not a trace of empathy. He

spoke as if I were a problem to be disposed of, an inconvenience he no longer had

time or patience for. Even as I cried out in silence at the destruction of my childhood

illusions, of my love for this man whom I always made so important to my life,

another part of me hardened, turned to stone.

Nothing had changed as far as he was concerned. He expected me to do whatever

suited him best. As he‟d convinced me to leave Spain for Flanders, so would he now

send me to England. Only this time, he wanted me gone so he could steal my throne.

I did not take my eyes from him. “You cannot think I would ever agree to this

monstrosity.”

“You have nothing else. Cisneros and I believe it is time you assumed your

rightful place.”

“Castile is my rightful place. Henry Tudor denied Catalina the most basic

comforts; he toyed with her even as Mamá lay dying. I would never marry him. The

very thought insults me.”

He regarded me impassively. Then he stepped forth and picked up the envelope

from the floor. “I lied. Someone else desires this marriage. Indeed, they need it.” He

extended it to me. “You should read this before you say anything else you‟ll have

cause to regret.”

I took it from him. The seal was cracked, but I recognized the broken castles and

lion of Spain. When I unfolded the paper, I saw desperate lines scrawled there that

tore at me like talons.

MI QUERIDA HERMANA,

I write because you said that if you could, you would do anything in your

power to help me. I find myself at the mercy of this English king, who as you know

has denied me all station and proper rank at his court and treats me as though I

were a disease come to his shores. Yet now, after years of denial and humiliation,

he has informed me he wishes for you to be his new wife and queen and will allow

Prince Harry and me to renew our betrothal if you would honor his suit. I beg you,

Juana, for the love you bear me, to consider my plight. Never has an infanta of

Castile fallen so low as I. But you can save me. You can come here to England and

we can live together again as sisters, as we did in our childhood. You will lack for

nothing, I promise, even upon the king’s death. You are a widow now and Papá

has conveyed you have no wish to take up the throne but would rather seek a place

of respite. This you will find with me. I need you more than ever, Juana.

With all my love,

Your sister, Catalina.

The silence stretched into eternity. I stood holding the paper and saw my beautiful

sister, reduced to such misery that she‟d demean herself by playing the scheming

supplicant.

And yet, I thought, I could go to England. I could say yeas and this would all end.

I could take my daughter, perhaps even my son, and never look back. IU would we a

man who slowly drowned in his own decay, but when he died, I would be a widowed

queen with her life ahead of her, I was still young; I had years ahead in which to make

a new existence.

As if from very far away, I heard my father say, “You are her only hope. All you

need do is sign a writ of voluntary abdication. I will rule Spain as regent until your son Charles comes of age. You can leave with a clear conscience.”

Voluntary abdication.

He lied. I would never have a clear conscience. If I signed away my rights, I would

sign away the very succession of Castile. Not ever the Cortes would be able to stop

him. He would win everything for Aragón and the son he hoped to sire on his new

French queen. My sons would be forever disbarred, my struggle to save Spain cast

asunder.

In my mind, I heard my mother as clearly as if she stood at my side: Good has a

way of losing to ambition.

I looked at him. I felt as if I had never seen him before, as if he were someone

who looked and sounded like my father but whose nature was frigid and ruthless.

“Cisneros and I have spent many hours negotiating these marriages,” he added.

“Like me, he is dedicated to this realm. With my marriage to Germaine and yours to

the Tudor, I will stifle all those who dare say that I, Fernando of Aragón, am

unworthy.”

I let the parchment stained with my sister‟s shame slip from my numb fingers.

How could I have thought for a moment of turning away from my own blood?

“This is
my
kingdom,” I said. “I weep for Catalina, for she has no other recourse, but I cannot help her. Not like this. I won‟t hear of another word about it.”

He lunged. For a horrifying moment, I thought he might strike me as he grabbed

my arm, his eyes gone black with rage. “How dare you speak to me as if I were your

lackey?” he hissed. “I rule here now, not you! And from this day forth,
you wil do as I
say!
”

His words fell on me like hailstones. But in that moment, I was no longer afraid. I

understood now what I‟d never seen before, the final terrible truth.

My father did not fight against me. He fought against a ghost.

All those years he had stood in my mother‟s shadow, known derisively as the

Aragónese under Isabel‟s petticoats― he could not forget or forgive. He had bided his

time, waited for the hour to claim what he believed was his, after years of bowing to

my mother‟s throne. He had waited and watched while Philip persecuted me and did

not lift a finger to stop it, not because he couldn‟t but because it had never been part

of his plan.

It has nothing to do with love. I doubted his ability to live in the shadow I cast for him.

Now his hour had come. He would pulverize a lifetime, quench forever the

invincible light that had eclipsed his own. I was but an obstacle in his path. It was my

mother he sought to punish― her and everything she stood for. He had been

ridiculed, insulted, humiliated. Never would he abide it again.

He released me. Under my sleeve, my arm burned. “No. I will not abandon my

realm. I will not disinherit my sons. If I abdicate, everything Mamá wanted will be

lost. I will not betray her.”

“Then you betray me!” he shouted. “You betray your father!”

A roaring filled my ears. I could not feel my feet as I took another step back.

“It seems you are unwell,” he said, and he spoke to wound, to maim, to kill. “You

imagine things. These flights of fancy that have been yours since childhood have

finally gotten the better of your. If you will not wed and resume a normal life, you

must be mad. You must be take somewhere safe, far from this―” he waived

derisively― “this cemetery you call a home.”

My hands clenched. I started to tremble. “Do as you will,” I whispered. “But

whatever you do to me will avail you nothing. I am still the queen. One day my son

will be king. A prince of the Habsburg and Trastámara blood, he will build an empire

greater than anything this world has seen. he will be everything I dreamed for Spain

and more.”

“You are a fool,” he spat. “He will build nothing but his Habsburg interests, and

when he does,
my
blood, the blood of Aragón, will be here to stop him.”

He turned heel and strode from the room.

I heard him yell out orders. I spun about, staggering against my hem. In the

doorway to the
sala
was a escort of guards. I looked past them to see the constable descending the staircase with a squirming bundle over his shoulder like a sack of

mead.

I cried out. A slim man in scarlet stepped from among the guards. His eyes fixed

on my with a raptor‟s intensity: the Marquis of Villena, whom my father had called a

traitor.

“Your Highness,” he said and he bowed, swiping off his cap to reveal that wealth

of dark hair, which the years had not thinned or grayed, as if he‟d made an unholy

pact to preserve his youth. This man who supposedly betrayed Spain for Philip‟s

service― he now served my father.

“Get out of my way,” I said through my teeth. “Get out, by God. I command

you!”

He sneered. “Your Highness should obey before I‟m compel ed to use harsher

measures.

I threw myself at him, raking my nails across his face. As he reeled away, clutching

a hand to his lacerated cheek, I saw the guards hesitate. None dared lay hands on me

as I broke through them to race to the stairs, my wail tearing from my throat.

Doña Josepha stood with my women at the top of the stairs, her weathered face

running with tears. I whirled about to the open door. I reached it in time to see the

constable and other lords mounting their steeds. My father was at the gates, his

gauntleted hands yanking at his reins so that his stallion balked. Perched in front of

him, clutching the saddle pommel, was my Fernandito.

He saw me. “Mamá!” he cried out. “Don‟t let them take me away from you!”

I opened my mouth to yell, to shriek, but all I could do was reach out I mute