The Scroll of Seduction (16 page)

My father said that the news of his son-in-law's poor health had come just as the procession of bishops and dignitaries that were to accompany my parents to the city gates had been about to leave. When they canceled the ceremony, fears spread.

“I wanted to come myself,” he said, “to make certain you are well provided for.”

We went upstairs to the bedroom. My father removed his felt hat as he entered. The court physician had just confirmed his diagnosis. Philippe's face was flushed with fever and illness. On seeing the king, he attempted to get up, but my father refused to allow it and motioned for him not to even rise to kiss his hand.

“Please forget all formalities and reverences, son.”

I translated his words into French. My father was very friendly and
good-natured, and he praised Philippe for the good impression he had made on those he'd met in Spain thus far. His only concern should be his own convalescence, he said. It made no difference if the ceremony before the Cortes were postponed a few days. His wife, the queen, was planning to come visit him the following day, he added, despite being unwell herself.

Philippe made a supreme effort and in a display of true gallantry insisted that the queen not wear herself out, especially at risk of catching his fever. If he found that she were preparing a visit to Olías, he would certainly go out to receive her at the gates of the city, regardless of his state of health.

His determination pleased my father. I smiled in silence at the contrast I observed between these two men in my life. Compared to the king of France, to my father-in-law, or even to Flemish nobles, my father lacked sophistication. His plain black clothes were not to be compared to the elaborate Burgundian outfits. And yet his simple attire underscored his gallantry, the natural way he communicated his authority. Philippe, on the other hand–fine-looking and sophisticated–more resembled a timid mouse forced to converse with the cat he knew full well could behead him with a swift movement of his claws. He was tensely gripping the sheets he held up to his chest, the tendons in his neck muscles revealing the effort he was making to keep his head high on the pillow. My father, meanwhile, sat beside him on a chair, legs splayed, body leaning forward. He explained briefly what would happen during the ceremony in Toledo, and after half an hour he rose and said that he would leave so that my husband could rest and recover.

After years of feeling alone and vulnerable in Flanders, the presence of my lord the king made me feel more aware of my royal stature than any of my confessors' or advisors' speeches had ever done. After bidding him farewell in the patio and watching him ride off with his party of attendants, I returned to Philippe's side. The visit had revived him. He recovered a few weeks later.

 

ON MAY
7,
WE MADE OUR TRIUMPHAL ENTRY INTO TOLEDO. DIGNITARIES
and grandees lined the streets for what seemed miles, and they
joined our entourage as we made our way toward the city gates. There were judicial envoys, aristocrats, clergy, French ambassadors, Venetians, Cardinal Mendoza, six thousand nobles from the kingdom, and, finally, my father, riding a beautiful chestnut-colored stallion. Philippe and I, on our mounts, rode beside him. The three of us were the crowning glory of the enormous procession. It was a splendid spring day: the brilliant blue sky offset the red earth beautifully, and the eager faces of the town's inhabitants and farmers lining the streets were wide-eyed and smiling at the joyous display of colors and royal standards. I wished my children could have been there to see it all. At one point I stopped, struck by a farm worker's daughter sitting on her father's shoulders amid the crowd, so much did she resemble my little Isabel. When I looked back to the procession once more, my father and Philippe were still riding together under a golden canopy that several pages held above them; they had forgotten all about me and left me behind, I was greatly pained that they had not waited. Without even turning around, my father continued to ride toward the nearby cathedral accompanied solely by Philippe. A few feet farther on, I saw Cardinal Cisneros and my mother emerge to receive them.

For them to have reached the cathedral without me was a blunder that neither my mother nor I could disregard. But I refused to let myself be overcome with rage. I forgave their conceit, their male need to mark territory and punish the fleeting nostalgia of a woman who misses her child, because at that moment I laid eyes upon my mother. Dressed in black from head to toe, she had not granted herself or my father permission to come out of mourning, as she had her courtiers. My siblings' deaths were clearly inscribed on her face, which I'd recalled as smooth and fair. Now the dark circles beneath her eyes denounced her grief, as did the deep lines curved from her nostrils to her mouth. But as soon as she saw me, her eyes shone from within their deeply shadowed sockets, and as she embraced Philippe, she looked at me sidelong and I understood the message in her eyes: don't fret, daughter, I will put things right. Finally it was my turn to receive her embrace. I closed my eyes as she hugged me, taking in a scent so different from the rancid stench she'd had when I left. Now she smelled of lavender and wool. She ran
her hands over the braids wrapped around my head, unable to contain a rare gesture of love. Six years had passed, and her happiness swelled that day under the arch of the Cathedral of Toledo, which we then entered to be sworn in as future sovereigns. Then came the Te Deum, hymns, and incense. We walked out into the ecstatic roar of the crowd.

My father didn't leave Philippe's side who, feeling he was already king, cast his eyes around with the arrogance of a supreme ruler. We walked to the palace, where the four of us were to remain alone until the celebratory banquet began later that evening. Once in private, Philippe gave my parents the tragic news we had received in Orleans: Arthur, the fifteen-year-old Prince of Wales and husband of my sister Catalina had died. A widow at seventeen, she was fast losing her hopes of becoming queen of En gland. Once again, the issue of Spain's future alliances was to remain unresolved. My mother could not but let out a dreadful wail, a death rattle she held in by clamping her hand over her mouth. My father got up and put another log in the fireplace with an angry gesture.
“Porca miseria,”
I heard him utter between clenched teeth, in the Italian of his beloved Naples.

 

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OF FORGING ALLIANCES AND ARRANGING MARRIAGES
to consolidate Spain's power, and the only thing they knew for sure was that a Fleming who didn't even speak their language would sit on the throne of Castile and Aragon. That is what they must have been thinking. Even I thought it. Philippe tried to feign anguish, but he could not have understood the utter desolation of the man and woman who sat in painful silence in the gray room of the palace at Toledo. My joyful reunion with my parents had been short-lived indeed. Tomorrow everyone would go into nine days of mourning. I would receive the Cortes of Castile mandate to become heir to the crown of those death-wracked kingdoms from men dressed as crows. I wondered what was going through my mother's mind as her soul was stabbed by jagged daggers: would she be feeling regret, or thinking that so much misery was divine retribution for having usurped the crown from
la Beltraneja
and locking her up in a convent? I shuddered to think that now the accursed kingdom would be my lot. Mine, Philippe's, and our descendants. The words
of Jesus Christ came to mind. “Father, let me not drink from this chalice.”

 

MANUEL RESTED HIS HAND ON MY HEAD. I OPENED MY EYES AND
sighed deeply, expelling all the air from my lungs.

“Back then, that many deaths so soon after one another must have been seen as some kind of sign from the heavens, don't you think?”

“Absolutely. Scientific thought didn't come into play until the seventeenth century. Before that, people interpreted events through superstition or religion, which is essentially the same thing.”

“Wouldn't you say that Juana's lack of interest in power came from a superstitious belief that misfortune was at her heels and could afflict her offspring? I would have feared that.”

“That's an interesting hypothesis. It's definitely true that Juana was not ambitious; she had no interest in power, and in fact seemed to try to avoid it, as you'll see later on. That was one of the arguments used to theorize on her madness. Incidentally, until this trip to Spain, the only criticisms of her behavior were based on her lack of religiosity and her scant correspondence with her parents. It wasn't until after 1508, according to the scholars who have studied her alleged insanity, that she started to show signs of mental instability. But I want to hear what you have to say about her defiance, whether you would attribute it to madness. It's late, though. Let's stop for today.”

 

WE'D BEEN IN THE LIBRARY THAT AFTERNOON AND THEN AGAIN
after supper. It was ten thirty and I wasn't sleepy, but Manuel seemed tired. He stood up and poked the logs in the fireplace. The embers had almost gone out. He said he'd walk me up to my room and then come back down to turn out the lights and smoke his last cigarette of the night. That way he could make sure the fire had burned out all the way. If that old house ever caught fire, he told me, it would go up like a tinderbox.

“You may as well leave the dress on. Águeda will have gone to bed by now.”

M
anuel walked into my room and closed the door softly. He undid the bows on the dress and handed me a white robe so I could cover up, moving silently so his aunt wouldn't get suspicious. She probably wouldn't hear anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Draping the dress over his arm, he whispered good night. His room was the last one before the staircase, he said. If I needed him, that's where he'd be. Águeda's room was across the hall.

 

I BRUSHED MY TEETH AND PUT ON MY PAJAMAS. ÁGUEDA HAD DRAWN
the curtains, but I opened them slightly to let the moon cast its soft light into the room. I took the Pradwin book on Juana that Mother Luisa Magdalena had given me out of my backpack. I'd decided to read up on the Denias and see if what I found coincided with what Manuel and his aunt told me. The lamp on my nightstand was made of delicate glass, with a pale, yellow satin lampshade. I put my mother's mirror on the little table like a lucky charm and got into bed. It smelled of mothballs and clean sheets. There was no way Manuel would dare get into bed with me at his aunt's house, I thought, still feeling the contact of his fingers on my back. Curled up underneath the light down comforter, I wished he would. My body responded to him when he was near, recognizing him as the source of the fantasies and ruminations I weaved in the quiet atmosphere of the boarding school. Without even bothering
to open the book, I thought instead how I would have liked to spend the night with him.

Over dinner, I hadn't had the usual feeling of him being a man trapped in the past. And afterward, I had liked seeing him look comfortable and peaceful among his books in the library, his cheeks red from the fire. He seemed sweet and accessible, and it wasn't Philippe I thought about, but him, Manuel. Understandably, being in his family's house imposed certain limitations, though. His aunt, having taken responsibility for me, would surely not stand for any behavior other than that which was appropriate between a man of his age and a young lady like me. But maybe tomorrow, before going back to school, we could stop by his apartment.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling light, seeing the room reflected in its crystal teardrops. My Siamese cat print pajamas made the chandelier twinkle in black and white. It seemed quieter there than at the convent. Every little while, the house would creak. I closed my eyes to quiet my apprehensiveness.

 

JUST WHEN I'D STARTED TO DRIFT OFF AND FEEL THE WAVES OF
sleep slowly wash over me, I heard a metallic sound echo throughout the entire house, jolting it to life in a jarring, inexplicable way. It sounded like sluice gates or hatches, latches clicking and echoing everywhere, including my room. I sat up in bed, startled and scared. Though I was unable to figure out where the noise had actually come from, I associated it with Juana's imprisonment, a castle drawbridge suddenly being raised ominously. I thought I must have imagined it. Frozen, the book in my hands, I sat and waited. Then I got up and went to the door. I stuck my ear to the wood. Everything was still. I quietly opened it and went out into the hall, barefoot, tiptoeing down the hall to Manuel's door. I could see a sliver of light underneath. There was a light on in his room.

As quietly as possible, I scratched the door two or three times with my fingernail.

Manuel opened. He was barefoot, dressed in sweatpants and a white T-shirt. As soon as he saw me, he put his finger to his lips and pulled me into the room by my wrist.

“Manuel, what was that noise? It frightened me,” I whispered.

“What noise?”

“I don't know, it was a metallic sound, like latches or traps being set or something.”

“Oh, that.” He smiled, lighting a cigarette. “Don't worry. There's an alarm system that activates locks throughout the house. My aunt sets it to go on every night at eleven. It's one of the insurance company's stipulations. There are so many valuable objects here; this house should be a museum.”

He hugged me awkwardly with his free hand and kissed the top of my head. I leaned into him.

“Cute cat pajamas.” He smiled, leading me to his bed. They were my favorite ones. The silky, white fabric was smooth against my skin. I looked around. There were two high shelves crammed with model ships, sailboats, castles, and–just like at his apartment–fragile-looking mobiles and complex constructions stacked up in a neat pile of boxes of jigsaw puzzles.

“What are you doing? What if your aunt hears us?” I asked.

We were whispering.

“She locks the doors just before she falls asleep, and besides, she's a little deaf. We'll have to be quiet, but I missed you. I'm glad you came.”

“I missed you too. Not Philippe. You.”

“All women are potentially adulterous,” he said, mockingly.

His movements went from tender to rough in seconds, and I had the distinct impression that he was angry, that he wanted to hurt me somehow. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let me and unbuttoned my top. The last button popped off when he yanked impatiently at my pajamas.

“Wait, Manuel. Stop it. Don't rip my pajamas off,” I said, holding my top closed over my chest with my hands as I looked at him, scared and confused.

“I'm sorry,” he said, letting his arms fall and staring down at the floor. “I don't know what came over me.”

“I thought you might be interested to know that I don't always think about Philippe,” I said, venturing a grin as I straightened my top.

He smirked.

“The great thing about being your age is that you dare to tell the truth. I never knew you thought about Philippe
at all
when you were with me.”

“Well, I always assume you're thinking about Juana,” I said honestly. “More than that, I feel like we
are
them, like they possess us, and come back to life to make love to each other through us.”

“You do? That's what you feel?”

“Well. I mean, I also feel you.”

“That makes four of us, then.”

I smiled.

“But today you were the only one I missed. Just you,” I said, hoping he believed me. “I wanted to be with you. I wasn't planning on coming to your room when I opened the door to try to figure out where that noise came from. My feet just brought me. Suddenly I was at your door. So I knocked.”

He stood and pulled me up from the bed, buttoning my pajama top.

“Come on. I'll take you back to your room.”

We tiptoed out. Suddenly I wanted to cry, ashamed at my own naïveté, horrified that I might have hurt his feelings and unsure I could fix things. When we reached my door, I turned. He saw how upset I was.

“I'm sorry, Manuel,” I managed to blurt, my voice trembling as I tried not to cry. I felt pathetic, but my tears were also the result of my fear, and of realizing that I felt more for this man that I had realized or accepted.

He pushed me into the room. He held me in his arms, he kissed me, he was suddenly all over me, as if he'd become several men at once. And that sudden change, having thought I had ruined things and now seeing I had not, persuaded me not to stop him, to let him kiss my chest, shoulders, neck, mouth. I pushed up against his body, rubbing up against him like a cat, hardly able to breathe, unable to keep from moaning. I let out a low purring, which mixed with my saliva and my runny nose. My face was burning up. We tore our clothes off and made love on the bathroom floor, on a towel. Manuel passed me another one to hold to my mouth
and stifle my cries, because either out of anguish or relief I came again and again. My body was like a spring that just kept uncoiling. It writhed in pleasure, and one orgasm would lead to another, and another, as if each time Manuel plunged into me, the tip of his penis struck a bell, a gong that set off waves of pleasure that began between my legs and then swelled out throughout my body. Manuel kept his eyes closed as he held me; he never opened them when we made love.

I don't know when he left. I woke up in the middle of the night, cold and naked, alone on the bathroom floor.

I dragged myself to bed and slept until ten in the morning.

The sun streamed in through the partly drawn curtains.

 

WHEN I WENT DOWNSTAIRS, MANUEL AND ÁGUEDA WERE SITTING
at the kitchen table, talking. He had a big stack of papers beside him. She was knitting. There were plates, bread and butter on the table, but it was obvious that they'd already had breakfast. As soon as I walked in, Águeda set down her knitting needles and asked me if I wanted eggs, or cereal. I didn't want her to go to any trouble, so I said I'd have bread and coffee.

“Lucía got scared last night when the alarm system set the locks,” Manuel said, moving his files to make room for me beside him.

Águeda looked at me and raised her hand to her forehead.

“I should have warned you; I don't know what I was thinking. This house is like a modern-day fortress. It's a nuisance, but Manuel probably told you that the insurance company requires it.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“Next time you come, I'll show you some of the objects we have here. There are some amazing treasures, antiques. Fascinating things.”

“Stolen,” said Manuel.

“Don't say that, Manuel.” It was obvious she'd heard that remark more than once and kept pouring coffee.

“All part of the Denia family's plunder of Queen Juana's possessions.”

“Don't pay him any mind, Lucía. When the queen died, Charles I
rewarded the Denias for their services, paying off the queen's debt with jewels and works of art.”

“Here we go again, the same old story,” Manuel said, finishing the last of his small cup of espresso.

“I've never accepted your theories, Manuelito. The queen was mad, and taking care of her was no walk in the park; it was a difficult task, and one that left its mark on our family. They deserved what they got.
More
than they got, I'd venture.”

“The queen was not mad. She was a prisoner.”

“You tell me, Lucía, if she was mad or not. Every night, after Philippe the Handsome died, she ordered them to open the coffin and she kissed his feet. And what about the funeral cortege to Granada? Who in their right mind would travel all over Spain with a coffin?”

“I don't know why you insist on saying that; we've been through this before. She had them open the coffin
twice,
and that was to make sure the body was still there. The first time she thought that the Flemish had removed not only his heart but his whole body.”

“The Flemish took his heart out?” I asked.

“Yes, to bury it in the Low Countries.”

“Well, that's how Pradwin justifies her behavior, but plenty of scholars disagree,” Águeda interrupted. “Who knows who's right? As far as I'm concerned, madness is the only explanation for Juana's behavior.”

“You refuse to let go of the idea that Ferdinand the Catholic was a good man, but he was unscrupulous. Ferdinand was the man Machiavelli based
The Prince
on! What do you think, Lucía? Do you think love makes people go crazy?”

I looked at the pair of them. Águeda had gone back to her knitting, but she glanced up now, waiting for me to answer.

“Um…I don't know.”

“What kind of a question is that, Manuel? How would she know? She's probably never been in love!”

“Is that true, Lucía? Have you never been in love?”

I think I must have blushed. I couldn't understand why Manuel was doing this. How could he have asked me a question like that in front of his aunt? And he seemed so intense. His eyes were boring into me.

“Leave her alone, Manuel.”

“You stay out of this, Auntie. She can answer for herself.”

“The nuns say that girls my age are in love with the idea of love.” I smiled.

“That's right, you tell him, child.”

“But Juana was your age when she fell in love with Philippe.
You
could feel that kind of love. Intense passion. Most people on the planet experience love in their adolescence; that's why women's bodies are programmed to conceive while they're young. Besides, as the saying goes, love is neither young nor old.”

“Good Lord, Manuel, that's just something dirty old men say to justify getting involved with young girls,” his aunt said. “Anyway, what do
you
think? Can love make people lose their minds?”

“I think it can lead to behavior that might be confused with madness, to blind rage, for example. Why else would there be so many crimes of passion?” he asked.

“But you claim that Juana wasn't mad,” she insisted.

“Exactly. She might have been worked up, but she wasn't crazy. They cornered her, and she reacted the same way any modern woman would have. She had no other options. She could resort to rage, or she could go on strike, as she so often did: refuse to bathe, to eat, make people fear for her life. Who knows? Maybe she had so little freedom that she doubted she was in her right mind herself.”

“What do you think, Lucía?” Águeda asked me.

“I don't think I know enough about it to have an opinion,” I said. “But I would like to know if you've ever fallen madly in love, Manuel.”

“Once,” he said, drawing on his cigarette. “See? At least I admit it.” He smiled, looking at me.

“You did?” Águeda asked, amazed. “I hope it wasn't one of those silly students of yours who call you up and never want to leave a message.”

“Good God, Águeda, those are students!” Manuel exclaimed.

“They're young girls. The sort you claim fall madly in love.”

“I think it's time to change the subject,” Manuel said, looking at his
watch as he stood up. “Lucía and I have to get on with our history of Queen Juana.”

“Go on, off to the library. I'll make lunch.”

I helped Manuel light a fire. We hardly spoke. Hand me this; light that. Pass me the dress. I asked him why he insisted on my wearing it. I didn't need it to feel like Juana anymore. That was what I thought, he said. There was no dissuading him. Naked, my arms crossed over my chest as I waited for him to slip it over my head, I felt more vulnerable than before, as if last night had changed things. Maybe Manuel was right and today I did need the damned dress. Maybe, I thought, having breached the circle where we played Juana and Philippe would affect my ability to inhabit that timeless space Manuel conjured up with his words, that space where Juana's inner thoughts came to me so clearly that I found it hard to distinguish between the words he spoke and the conversations, thoughts, and feelings I imagined as his voice reached me.