“It is Babylon,” snarled Doña Ana.
It is my new home, I thought, and I rode in a daze through gilded gates into the courtyard of the Habsburg palace of Berthout-Mechelen.
Philip’s sister, Margaret, waited to greet me—a tall, rangy princess whose pronounced nose and equestrian jaw set off effervescent gray-blue eyes. After kissing me on the mouth as if we’d known each other our entire lives, Margaret led me through ostentatious passages into an antechamber hung entirely in blue satin. I could see a huge bed heaped with furs in the adjoining chamber. Venetian carpets covered the floor; a fire crackled in the marble hearth. In the corner stood a wood tub lined with sheets—for my toilette, explained Margaret.
“You do want to bathe, oui, after such a tiresome journey?” She did not seem to recall that as my brother’s betrothed, she too would soon undertake the same voyage. Clapping her hands, she sent her women rushing at me.
I stood, stupefied, as the Flemish women stripped me of my clothing like a slave on the auction block. It took a few moments to locate my voice; when I did, my protest brought everyone to a halt. Margaret regarded me curiously as I clutched at my shift.
“I…I wish to bathe alone,” I managed to say, in halting French, as Beatriz and my ladies came to flank me. Doña Ana and my other matrons stood frozen.
Margaret shrugged. “Eh, bon. I’ll see to your supper.” Kissing me again as if the matter were of no particular account, she swept out, her ladies chuckling behind her.
I gave a nervous laugh, hugging my arms about my chest. “They act like barbarians!”
Beatriz nodded. “Indeed. Her Majesty would be outraged.”
“No doubt,” I said, and I eyed the tub. “But I could use a bath. Come, help me.”
To my matrons’ horrified gasps I drew my shift over my head and tossed it aside. Doña Ana cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it. That bath is not properly drawn. I can smell the perfume in the water from here. You’ll smell like a heretic odalisque.”
“Seeing as I smell more like a goat after weeks at sea, I hardly see the argument,” I replied. Beatriz helped me into the tub. I reclined in the scented water. “This is paradise,” I sighed, and Soraya slipped forth to massage my feet with aromatic oils she produced as if by magic from within her gown pockets.
Doña Ana glared, whirled about, and started barking orders at the other women, who were soon hauling in my surviving coffers, searching the contents for suitable garments.
My skin glowing, I was dressed in my crimson velvet with my mother’s ruby about my throat. Against the blue room, I shone like flame. Doña Ana threw a veil over my head moments before Margaret and a group of nobles tromped in. Pushing in behind them were the men of my entourage, still clad in their soiled traveling gear, their expressions hard with anger that they’d not been offered so much as a room to rest in.
I resisted the urge to pull off the veil. Castilian tradition decreed only her husband could unveil a royal bride. I thought it absurd, echoing the Moors’ habit of immuring their women, and I stood rigid as a sculpture when Margaret declared, “Such a lovely gown. And the ruby is gorgeous, my dear. May I present a few members of our court? They’re most eager to pay their respects.”
I nodded, starting slightly when the archduchess leaned to me and whispered, “All this ceremony is frightfully tedious, my dear, but they simply refuse to heed reason. We can only hope they’ll make their speeches brief so you can sup in peace.”
Not knowing what to say, I inclined my head as the archduchess introduced the nobles, as well as Margaret’s former governess and matron, Madame de Halewin, a gaunt woman in jade silk. Most of the names flew from my head the moment they were uttered; I had an overall impression of well-fed sleekness and appraising eyes before a corpulent man in crimson robes strode into the room, his fleshy face beaming.
“His Eminence the archbishop of Besançon, Lord Chancellor,” pronounced Margaret.
The Spanish company bowed in deference to the authority of the church. Besançon was the highest ecclesiastic in Flanders, his position equal to that of Cisneros in Spain. He was also the man whose postscript had displeased my mother. As I started to curtsy, he shot out a fat, ring-laden hand, detaining me.
“Mais non, madame. It is I who should bow to you.” He did not bow, however; his head tilted at an angle before he turned his keen stare to Margaret and issued a curt babble of Flemish.
I looked in puzzlement at the archduchess. With a reddening of her cheeks, Margaret translated, “His Eminence wishes to know why Your Highness wears a veil.”
“It is our custom,” interjected Doña Ana, before I could reply. “In Spain, a bride must remain hidden from all male eyes until she is wed by the church.”
I spied the pinch in Besançon’s mouth, belying his jocular smile. With a swift upsweep of my hand, I removed the offending cloth.
Silence fell. Then Besançon cried, “Très belle!” and as if on cue, the Flemish broke into applause. With a wave of his hand, the archbishop sent two pages speeding from the chamber. Doña Ana rumbled forth. “This is an outrage! How dare he disdain your privacy?”
“He did not disdain it,” I said to her, through my teeth. “I did. I’ll not have him question my suitability. And it seems I have pleased.”
Doña Ana snapped, “He is no one to question! He’s but a—”
The tromping of footsteps spun her around. While the Flemish grinned and the archduchess Margaret released a bray of laughter, the footsteps grew louder, coming closer and closer.
Besançon’s pages ran back into the chamber and bowed to the floor.
A tall young man strode in.
He wore a leather jerkin fitted to his chest, his long legs encased in cordovan boots. As he whipped off his cap, he unleashed a wave of gold-auburn hair that fell to his shoulders. His prominent jaw, aquiline nose, and generous mouth were highlighted by close-set blue eyes that mirrored Margaret’s, as did his unblemished white skin.
A slow smile curved his full lips.
I didn’t need anyone to tell me who he was. There could be no doubt. This was the prince his subjects had dubbed Philip the Fair, and he was indeed that—the fairest man I’d seen, his beauty almost too perfect yet without a hint of femininity, like that of a bold young stag.
I felt a discomfiting sensation. He stood in the stunned silence with gloved hands on hips, studying me as if I were the only person in the room, his gaze intent on my face before it trailed to my breast, where it lingered, as if he espied my quickening pulse. It was an outrageous, brazen look, and yet to my confusion, I found it flattering. No man in Spain would ever dare look upon me, a woman of royal blood, like this. I knew I should retrieve my crumpled veil, but the candid approval in his gaze made my insides turn liquid warm.
Like his minister Besançon, Philip of Habsburg obviously liked what he saw.
“His Highness the archduke,” said Archbishop Besançon with pompous redundancy, seeing as everyone had dropped into obeisance.
Philip yanked off his gauntlets and came to me. He seized my hand, raised it to his lips. His pungent scent teased my senses, a heady brew of sweat and horse, spiced with an unknown salty tang I had sometimes smelled on my father.
“Bienvenue, ma petite infanta,” he said in a low voice. I glanced at the hand holding mine. He had lovely fingers, I thought in a haze, strong, tapered, without any visible scars. Those hands had probably never held anything more demanding than a hunting bow or sword.
I summoned a tremulous smile. Was this magnificent youth to be my husband? It seemed impossible. I’d prepared to tolerate him at best, disdain him at worst. I had anticipated a marriage without passion, an alliance of state for the good of Spain. I even thought I might hate him. I never for a moment imagined he might stir any sort of feeling in me. But this was unlike anything I had felt before, an inexplicable sensation like butterflies dancing in my veins.
I realized with a start that he waited for me to speak. I managed to murmur, “M
y lord honors me,” and he gave a soft chuckle before turning to the assembly with an expansive smile. “I am delighted with my Spanish bride. We shall marry at once!”
His declaration rippled like catastrophe through my ranks. Doña Ana swayed as if she were about to swoon; the other matrons glowered. Even Beatriz looked discomfited. With a high-pitched laugh, Margaret said, “Brother dear, must you be so impatient? She has only just arrived here, after an exhausting voyage. Perhaps you might greet her entourage first?”
Philip waved his hand. “Yes, yes.” He didn’t relinquish his hold on me as the members of my household stepped to him. Pulling myself to attention, I introduced them by name, as Margaret had done for me. They filed past, followed by my matrons and ladies. I heard his boot tap, tap, tapping on the carpet. Not until the clergy’s turn came did he display sudden interest.
“My professor of theology, the bishop of Jaén—”
“Bishop?” interrupted Philip. “As in, ordained by the church?”
The elderly bishop paused. “Yes, Your Highness. I am ordained.”
“Splendid! Then you can marry us.”
“I…” The bishop glanced at me. “Your Highness, I fear I cannot.”
“Why not? Is there something wrong with your mouth, perhaps, that you can’t recite a few vows?” Philip turned to me. “Is there something wrong with him, my sweet?”
There were flecks of white in the azure of his irises, like diamond shards. And he had the longest lashes I’d seen on a man, so fair they seemed spun of white gold.
“Well?” he said. Laughter rustled low in his throat. “Is there something wrong with him?”
I blurted, “No, my lord. But it’s not fitting we should wed before—”
“Never mind that. Besançon!” The Flemish archbishop bustled forth. “Is there any reason the infanta and I should not wed here and now?”
Besançon chortled. “None. You need only repeat the vows in person to sanctify your union. Under canon law, Your Highnesses are already husband and wife.”
Philip cupped my chin. “Can you think of any reason?”
Doña Ana cried, “By her honor, Her Highness must be wed by the church!”
He didn’t glance at her. He stared at me as if he could compel me to his will, and quite to my disconcertion I found myself wanting to oblige. It was impulsive, scandalous even, for of course there were several reasons why we shouldn’t wed like this, the primary one being that such events were supposed to be protracted affairs celebrated with pomp. Now, at the age of sixteen, I faced my first decision as a woman, independent of rank or protocol; and all of a sudden I thought that nothing about this marriage made any sense. I didn’t know Philip and yet I’d been sent all this way to become his wife. Whether it happened today or next week, what could it matter?
“I see no reason, my lord,” I finally said, and as Doña Ana groaned in dismay, I motioned to the bishop of Jaén. “My lord, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He dared not refuse me. “A Bible,” he quavered. “I must have a Bible.”
Besançon produced the tome with premeditated haste. Glowering, my retinue knelt beside their Flemish counterparts. The archduchess Margaret joined the other ladies.
There in that antechamber, without incense or altar, I married Philip of Habsburg.
“May none tear asunder those whom God hath joined,” concluded the bishop, and Philip bent to me and put his lips on mine. My first kiss; he tasted of wine. It wasn’t unpleasant.
He drew back and with a triumphant grin said, “Now, to the feast!”
AS SOON AS WE entered the hall, I realized hours of advance preparation had been expended on this banquet.
Trestle tables stretched the hall’s length to a canopied dais, where Philip and I took our seats. Musicians struck up a refrain. Servitors entered, carrying baked boars’ heads stuffed with caramelized pears; winter peacocks sautéed in hippocras; glazed honeyed herons; haunches of cinnamon-roasted venison; and myriad unrecognizable dishes smothered in creamy sauces. I ventured an inquiring look at Philip, as each course was set before me. He recited the corresponding platter’s name in French. I smiled, feigning understanding.
Throughout the feast, I couldn’t help staring at him. I searched for but failed to find any arrogance beyond what was normal to his rank, none of the callousness or spoiled petulance I could expect from an heir to an empire. He was attentive, solicitous, as a well-bred prince should be. It wasn’t until the desserts were finally served that he whispered, “You haven’t recognized a thing you’ve eaten tonight, have you, ma petite?”
“No,” I told him, “but I’ve had poultry before, my lord. I do know its taste.”
“Do you?” He forked a piece of roast flesh from his silver plate and raised it to my lips. I glanced around, wishing we weren’t so visible to the Flemish courtiers seated below us, several of whom were staring, smiling and nudging each other as if they knew something I did not.
I took the fork from him. “Delicious,” I pronounced. “I believe it is quail, yes?”
He let out a hearty laugh. Then I felt his hand slip under the table to rest on my thigh. I went still. It took a moment for me to identify my fear. He touched me as if I were a prized possession, a favorite hound or hawk. I understood then that I was his now, to do with as he wished. I’d surrendered whatever little freedom I’d enjoyed as an infanta to become the archduchess of Flanders, Philip of Habsburg’s wife.
I regretted not having stood my ground earlier. I knew, of course, what was expected of a bride on her wedding night, in general if not specifics. I hadn’t stopped to consider this was, in fact, my wedding night. Was I prepared to give myself to a stranger? Unlike me, I doubted he was a novice when it came to such matters. Men rarely were. I should have insisted we wait until a proper ceremony was arranged; I should have pleaded exhaustion or another indisposition.
Yet even as I thought this, I knew I deluded myself. I had agreed because I had wanted to, because I had seen a challenge in him I could not resist.
I reached for my goblet. Philip took up his at the same time. His gesture conveyed what he did not say, and so intense was the way he looked at me that after we drank together Margaret leaned from her place at my left side to whisper in my ear, “You mustn’t worry, my dear. My brother is like any man, but you’ll have your cathedral wedding. My lord Besançon won’t be deprived of the opportunity to show you to the people. He considers our alliance with Spain his greatest achievement to date. Indeed, I’m surprised he hasn’t sent me packing my coffers this very night, so he can see me off all the quicker to your brother’s bed.”
I glanced past Philip at the archbishop. He nodded as Philip murmured to him but seemed more interested in his food, eating with his hands like a serf. I thought there was something unpleasant about the prelate but I was grateful for Margaret’s reassurance. Perhaps now would be the time to tell her about my brother and his many princely accomplishments.
Instead, I felt Philip take my hand and draw me to my feet. “Play a bass dance,” he called to the musicians as he led me to the floor. “A Flemish bass dance to celebrate my marriage.”
His court yelled their approval, banging goblets on the tables, causing cutlery and trenchers to jump. My entourages’ brows arched even higher; I could practically feel their stares boring into me. To them, my wedding ceremony had been a farce. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in virginal isolation with my women until I was wed by the church, with all the requisite trappings.
All thought of extolling Juan’s virtues fled my mind. Surely, I couldn’t dance with a man I’d just met, and whom, in my entourages’ opinion, I had not yet officially wed?
As if he sensed my misgiving, Philip said, “Come, my infanta. Let us show them how Spain and Flanders can dance together.”
He propelled me forward. As the drumbeats gathered force, I surrendered my inhibitions. I excelled at dancing, and the bass dance was one of my favorites, its fluid rhythm and intricate twists and bows
requiring both stamina and grace. Philip too proved an excellent dancer, and I met his every move with ease, as if we’d danced together a hundred times before.
He whispered, “You are breathtaking,” and my flush must have reached the roots of my hair when he disdained the courtly glance to kiss me instead on the mouth, quenching my breath. This time, it was more than pleasant. I felt his kiss down to the very tingling soles of my feet.
About us, the court turned boisterous. All of a sudden, the Flemish courtiers stood in an exuberant rush, sending platters crashing to the floor as they grabbed any available woman by the hand, including several of my ladies, and hauled them onto the floor. Within seconds, a mass of cavorting bodies surrounded us. Instinctively, I pressed closer against Philip, staring in disbelief as the Flemish whirled my horrified Spanish ladies about.
Philip chuckled. When I followed his gaze to where one of my women was fending off a drunken lout, I let out an unwitting, nervous laugh. I’d never beheld such unbridled enthusiasm before. Uncouth as they were, the Flemish certainly knew how to enjoy themselves.
Philip looked at me. His regard turned somber. “Your countrymen are not amused,” he said, and my stomach sank when I saw the noblemen of my entourage, who’d come to accompany me here and bring Margaret back to Spain, stand in unison and march from the hall. “You must go now,” Philip added. “I’d not be the cause of further reproach from that dragon duenna of yours.”
He guided me through the crowd to where Doña Ana stood trembling with rage. My other women wrenched free of their uninvited partners to fence me in. My duenna gripped my arm. “It is time you retired, Your Highness,” she said, in a tone that broached no argument. “Now.”
I stared at her livid face and moved with my phalanx of women to the hall doors. As I walked out, I looked over my shoulder. Philip stood among his courtiers, his eyes fixed on me.
I knew it would take more than Doña Ana to keep him at bay.
SIX
The moment we reached my apartments, Doña Ana turned on me. “This is a disgrace! What would Her Majesty your mother think were she here to see this? She would most certainly tell you that a few vows in an antechamber do not a marriage make!”
History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 6