In the extravagantly decorated apartments of Philip’s ducal palace, I set up my first household. Or I tried to, for I soon found myself quite overwhelmed.
Philip’s court was like a city; never had I seen so many people. In Castile my mother’s court was designed for efficiency and economy. The demands of the Reconquest had reduced us to the essentials, as we had to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. In Flanders it seemed the only impetus to move was when our own stench drove us to it; moreover, the Flemish reveled in ostentatious display, augmenting their comforts with a ceaseless drive for wealth. And where better to make one’s fortune than at court? Thus, hundreds crammed into that luxurious sprawl—bishops and prelates, nobles and their retinues, ambassadors, envoys, and secretaries, the ubiquitous courtiers and hangers-on, and countless servants and menials.
And women; so many women. Wives and daughters, mistresses, noble ladies, and courtesans—all angling for the limited power accorded to our sex, all determined to make my acquaintance and earn my favor. Their dress was garish, and they wore too much paint; they preened and flirted without shame and sowed intrigue like churchmen.
Gathering in the galleries in the afternoons, they shared banter about current and past lovers, discussed trends in headwear, and dabbled in politics. They seemed to know everything that was going on in every court in Europe, who was doing what to whom. I heard of the struggles in England, where my sister Catalina was destined to go, of the horrific thirty-year civil war that had decimated the English nobility and given rise to the newly founded Tudor dynasty under Henry VII. I learned of the treacheries of the French and their quest to dominate Italy, of the corrupt Valois and their legacy of avaricious kings. I couldn’t help but find it all irresistible. Like a fly into their web I was drawn, for I was the principal lady of the court, the archduchess; and through flattery and compliments they engaged me in conversational peccadilloes while plying me with questions.
I discovered that, for them, Spain was a distant and exotic land, shrouded in superstition and the darkness of the Moorish domination, and that my mother was revered as a warrior queen. They wanted to know everything about the fall of Granada, the voyages of Cristobal Colón, and whether it was true that the caliphs had kept their wives immured, beheading any man who dared so much as glimpse at them. They gasped at my tales of the eunuchs set to guard over the harem, of the day I’d seen Boabdil brought low, and in return they showed me how to disguise the olive tint of my skin with powder and convinced me I’d look splendid in their daring fashions.
Of course, this could only lead to one thing.
A month or so after my arrival in Brussels, as I stood one afternoon with my ladies in my rooms, trying on the latest in a series of new gowns I’d ordered in anticipation of my upcoming tour of the Habsburg territories, Doña Ana burst in.
“I’ll not stand by and abide this insolence another moment. Look at you! That bodice is fit only for a woman of ill repute, and your hair should be in a snood, as befits a matron, not hanging loose under that useless confection.”
“It’s a French hood,” I said tersely. I’d hoped to keep my duenna and other matrons occupied with the mundane details of my household, entrusting my intimate needs to others. I should have known she’d not stay mum for long, and suppressed my irritation that she dared create this uproar before the bevy of Flemish ladies overseen by Madame de Halewin.
“Is this what we’ve come to, an infanta who exalts the dress of Spain’s mortal foe?”
I clenched my teeth. I was rapidly reaching my limit when it came to her recriminations.
“Doña Ana, it’s but a headdress,” I heard Beatriz say, trying to defuse the situation.
“ ‘But a headdress,’ she says!” Doña Ana turned to Madame de Halewin. The Flemish matron stood spare as a winter branch, a pincushion dangling on a chain from her waist. “You, madame,” my duenna accused. “You’ve caused nothing but trouble, turning Her Highness’s head with these extravagances! She is a princess of Spain. She has no need of such gowns.”
Madame de Halewin did not so much as raise her voice. “Her Highness told me she had nothing suitable for court occasions, as much of her trousseau sank with that ship. I simply advised her that as the archduchess, she must appear at all times befitting her rank.”
“Yes, and set yourself to fashioning a wardrobe for a common harlot!” Doña Ana spun back to me. “You should have sent word to Castile. Her Majesty would not want a foreign woman to dress you.”
My voice hardened. “Perhaps not, but I will still have a new wardrobe.” I turned back to where my women waited, holding the sections of a lovely canary velvet gown.
“Begin,” I ordered. The women hastened to dress me in the underskirt and bodice slashed with gold tissue. They attached the lynx-trimmed sleeves, fastened the stays that held girdle and bodice in place, cinching my waist into a narrow triangle. I stared defiantly into the glass, hiding my discomfort with the low, square neckline that exposed my breasts almost to my nipples.
Doña Ana exploded. “This is a scandal! When has an infanta of Spain ever selected her own wardrobe, much less pranced about in such brazen apparel?”
She had gone too far. I whirled about. “Enough. I’ll not be spoken to as if I were a child!”
Doña Ana’s mouth hung open. Before she could find her voice, Madame de Halewin moved to me. “I believe this sleeve should be raised at the shoulder,” she murmured.
About us, the Flemish girls looked from Doña Ana to Madame de Halewin and back to me. Beatriz went to Doña Ana. “Señora, let us take a walk. You look pale.”
“Yes,” I added pointedly, “go with Beatriz.” I waved a preemptory hand.
Doña Ana trudged out. As the door closed, I distinctly heard her say: “She’ll not get away with this. I’ll write to Spain this very afternoon, so help me God.”
Madame de Halewin waved aside the whispering girls. “You too. Get to work. Her Highness’s bedchamber needs cleansing.”
I studied my reflection. Doña Ana would not spoil this for me. The gown might be indecent according to Spanish standards, but it was more luxurious than anything I’d owned. And I had a lovely bosom; everyone said so. Why shouldn’t I display it to my advantage? Veils and high-collared robes would not go over well with the Habsburg court.
Madame de Halewin met my gaze. With uncanny prescience, she said, “I cannot help but notice your duenna’s outbursts have become more frequent.” She let out a sigh. “Your Highness has shown remarkable restraint, considering she acts as though you’re incapable of making your own decisions. What will she do when you embark on your tour with His Highness, I wonder? The Habsburg territories are large. Germany, Austria, Holland: the trip could take months.”
The intimation in her words cut deep, as did the thought of Doña Ana blighting what in effect would be my official presentation by Philip to our future subjects. As Madame knelt to check my hem, I suddenly realized I couldn’t stomach another confrontation with my duenna.
“Madame, I was thinking I might relieve my matrons for a time of their responsibilities, at least until I return from my trip. What would you advise?”
She inclined her head. “I think it’s a wise idea. Poor dears, the change in climate alone for women of their age can be quite upsetting.” She pinned up my skirt to adjust it. “Perhaps your matrons might be transferred to their own quarters while Your Highness is away?”
In the mirror, I thought I saw her smile. “Your Highness needn’t concern yourself with the details. Once you depart, there’ll be sufficient room in the palace to accommodate them.”
“In truth?” I said. “It seems everywhere I look there are hordes of people. I’ve even heard that our less fortunate courtiers sleep with the hounds in the rushes.”
“Nevertheless, there are quarters we can designate.”
I considered. If proper accommodations could indeed be found, it seemed the perfect solution and would allow my duenna and me a much-needed respite
from each other. I was fond of Doña Ana, in the end. How could I not be? She’d helped raise us. I just didn’t want her interfering in what I regarded as my purview, nor did I want her ranting at me night and day while I sought to make a suitable impression.
“And you can assure me they’ll be well cared for?” I asked.
“Absolutely. We’ll pay for their maintenance out of your own privy purse.”
I reflected a few more moments, while she busied herself with my dress. At length, I said, “See to it. No doubt, we’ll all appreciate the change.” I laughed, albeit a little nervously. “All of us, that is, save Doña Ana.”
EIGHT
A furious quarrel ensued when Doña Ana was informed neither she nor any of my Spanish matrons would accompany me. She threatened to take the next ship back to Spain and I retaliated by offering her paid passage. I refused to see her after that, celebrating the New Year festivities of 1497 with Philip in grand style before we departed on the first league of our trip.
While on the road, we received word that Margaret and my brother, Juan, had wed in Spain, to great fanfare. Sad news accompanied this missive; in the midst of the nuptial festivities, my grandmother passed away quietly in Arévalo.
I felt a profound, unexpected grief. I hadn’t forgotten my visit with her, and one night in bed I almost confessed to Philip, longing to unburden myself of the secret I carried. But I did not. Something warned me he wouldn’t understand. He had lived most of his life without family. He would surely judge my mother as a hard and cold ruler, much like his father was. And so I hid behind a brittle smile, while in my mind remembering my grandmother’s haunting eyes and her whisper, Why are you afraid…?
My preoccupation faded as our trip progressed and Philip strived to show me off to his people. In every township we entered, jubilant crowds rushed out to greet us. Elaborate welcomes were staged, and lord mayors presented us with gilded keys and proclamations. The land also began to reveal itself to me, its fields dotted with tulips and painted cities bright as newly minted coins. Shining rivers crisscrossed vales where the game was so abundant Philip told me one hardly needed to draw one’s bow, and swaths of forest entranced the eye.
Still, I didn’t see anything to compare with the sheer breadth of Spain’s magnificence, no austere plateaus that plunged into fertile valleys, no endlessly changing skies. In Flanders everything seemed new, a fitting accompaniment to my new life; and soon I was tossing coins from my purse to the crowds with a largesse that would have been unknown in my country, reveling in the anonymous faces gazing up at me as if I were a goddess.
IN LATE APRIL WE WENT TO THE HABSBURG KINGDOM OF AUSTRIA for a weeklong visit with Philip’s father, the emperor Maximilian. I was curious to meet my exalted father-in-law, ruler of half the civilized world and inheritor of the coveted crown of Holy Emperor. I found him a staid man of robust health and little humor. His palace was magnificent, filled with aspiring scholars and artists seeking his favor; and evidence of his wealth was everywhere. As a welcoming gift, he gave me a necklace of emeralds so heavy it hurt to wear it, and we dined with him and his second wife, the Italian-born empress, on gold plate so encrusted with gems I could scarcely pick it up. I couldn’t help but think of how my mother had pawned her jewels and melted her plate to finance her wars, and how to this day she had her gowns mended and remended while she painstakingly saved up the coin she needed to reclaim her jewelry from the moneylenders.
I attended my first (and my last) bear bait at the Austrian court, held in honor of our visit. I’d heard of this peculiar custom, but nothing could have prepared me for the pitiful roars of that proud black beast chained to a stake in a pit, surrounded by yelling courtiers as mastiffs took turns tearing it apart. The bear managed to gore and disembowel three of the savage dogs before it in turn was taken down; by then, I was faint from the stench of blood and entrails, and sickened by the court’s apparent delight in the suffering of these creatures. I rose to excuse myself, followed by my equally green-faced ladies; Philip barely paid me mind, flushed from his shouting and keen on winning the bets he’d laid with his men. As I staggered from the tiers with my hand pressed to my mouth, desperate for fresh air, I heard Maximilian drawl, “I’d never heard of a Spaniard lacking for spleen when it came to slaughter.”
I almost retorted that spleen or not, he’d never see such barbarity exercised in Spain. Then I recalled Cisneros’s burnings of heretics and clamped my jaw. Nevertheless, I vowed to never again witness such gleeful torture.
I also saw firsthand the tension between Philip and his father, confirming everything my husband had told me about their estrangement. Though they resembled each other physically, they spoke on the most formal of terms, without a single gesture of affection between them. When the time came for us to leave, even their farewell was carefully rehearsed and utterly lacking in any warmth.
After that, Philip and I were obliged to separate. It would be our first time apart since our wedding. He would continue on to the official gathering of his Estates-General, a governing body composed of officials from the Imperial states, while I returned to Brussels. I wanted to stay with him, but he assured me I’d be bored to tears and he wouldn’t have a moment to spare. “Not to mention that your presence would be too tempting a distraction,” he added, with a wink.
So my entourage and I returned to our palace. The afternoon following my arrival I took to the gallery, eager to tell all those ladies who hadn’t accompanied me about my adventures, for I must admit, I’d enjoyed being the center of attention and was loath to relinquish the role.
I was so engrossed in my own splendor I almost failed to mark the timid girl who crept tentatively toward me, a chambermaid or servant girl, with downcast eyes. “Your Highness, I beg your leave,” I heard her utter. I turned with a ready smile. During the tour, many such girls had made their way to me, hoping for a piece of ribbon from my hair or section of lace from my cuff, as though any article that had touched my person were a talisman.
Madame de Halewin stepped between us. “Her Highness doesn’t wish to be disturbed. Off with you, girl!”
I held up a hand, moving around Madame to the now-cowering figure. She was just a child, one of the thousands who prepared our food, mended our linens, dusted our belongings, and swept out our hearths. I had been taught by my mother’s example to always show kindness to those who served me, as justness, not pride, was the hallmark of royalty.
“Come, child,” I said, “what is it?”
The girl reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper. “Your matrons send you this,” she murmured, and she stepped back hurriedly.
I frowned, glanced at the paper. The writing was cramped, in faded ink, but the words were unmistakable: Somos prisoneras. We are prisoners.
“What is this?” I asked the girl. “Where did it come from? Speak up.”
Beatriz and Soraya came up beside me. An uncomfortable tightness formed in my chest when the girl whispered, “It is from a lady named Doña Francisca. She asked me to bring this to Your Highness. She begged me. She also bid me tell you, Doña Ana is ill.”
It was all I needed to hear. I motioned. “Beatriz, Soraya, come with me. We’ll visit my matrons in their quarters.” I stopped Madame de Halewin with a single glance. “Alone.”
STANDING AT THE BOTTOM of a staircase in a dilapidated quarter of the palace, I gazed about in horror.
My matrons’ quarters, if such they could be called, consisted of a wine cellar, the moldering walls windowless, the broken stone floor strewn with straw. I wouldn’t have stabled a mule here, I thought, and I felt ill when I saw the pallets and threadbare blankets, the mess of cinders in the center, where my women had resorted to burning kindling for heat.
I gestured to Beatriz, who rewarded the girl with a purse of coins and sent her scampering off, her good deed done and financial situation considerably improved.
My four matrons stood clustered together, clad in layers of soiled clothing, all bea
ring the sallow look of invalids. The odium in their sunken eyes made me want to flee back up the stairs. I had signed vouchers for their upkeep before I left with Philip on tour. I believed I had seen to their welfare. How had this happened? How long had they been here, like this?
I moved to the pallet where Doña Ana lay and dropped to my knees. “Doña Ana,” I whispered. “Doña Ana, it is I, your Juana. I am here.”
My duenna’s eyes opened, glazed with fever. “Mi niña,” she croaked. “Oh, my child, you must summon a priest. I am dying.”
“No, no. You are not dying.” I removed my shawl, tucked it about her. “It’s only your tertian fever, as you used to get in Castile. The moment we went to Granada, you always improved.”
“I’ll have no such relief here,” she murmured.
I lifted an enraged gaze to Doña Francisca de Ayala, who stood like an accusing specter before me. “How did this occur? Why was no word sent to me of these deplorable conditions?”
She met my gaze. “We tried, Your Highness. We were denied access to you.”
“Denied?” My voiced edged up a notch. “By whom? Tell me at once!”
“My lord Besançon. We were told by his secretary that you authorized our transfer, and should we find reason for complaint we could take our leave for Spain.” She gave me a mirthless smile. “I suppose he expected us to walk there.”
“That is impossible.” My gaze flew to Beatriz. “I paid out of my own purse for your expenses. I was told you would be well cared for.”
Doña Francisca reached into her frayed cloak pocket and withdrew a bunch of crinkled papers, tied with a string. She dropped it in front of me. “Here are our letters to you. Every day, for weeks, we wrote. Each one was returned. Then one night, they came and locked us in. It was only by chance we found a way out.”
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