History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by Gortner, C. W.

  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 to the ramparts. Wrapped in a mantle, I stood for hours, looking up to the darkening sky where snow-laden clouds converged and lone hawks circled with remorseless deliberation, seeking their prey 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 else 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 another 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 stake 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 Fernandito heir instead, a Spanish-born prince of the Trastámara and Habsburg bloods, reared in Castile by his grandmother. Through him, she could 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 be disposed of, sacrificed for the good of the 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 men 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 retainers had gathered in groups around 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 impassable.

  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 was 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 at 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 letters, 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 offer.

  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 a 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 when after another moment’s pause he reached into the satchel, bringing out a packet wrapped in oily waterproofed leather, secured with Cisneros’s seal on the cord.

  I saw him off into the castle and his reward in the kitchens. 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-today documents of a royal household, all embossed with the crest of the See of Toledo, indicating 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 packet, I extracted a folded paper. It too was sealed. I cracked the wax, my heart beating faster as I scanned meticulous handwriting. 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 or 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 grave 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 to be allowed Her Highness. It would not serve Her Majesty at this late hour if Her Highness were 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 in 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 a 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 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 into flame. “Where did you find it?”

  “From the courier! I should have known. Philip warned me; he said the only thing that mattered to my mother was her kingdom. God in heaven, I should have listened to him, followed him across the mountains. I should have heeded his warning when I had the chance!”

  I thrust Cisneros’s letter into my gown pocket. “How could she? How could my own mother plot against me after everything I’ve done for her? And Philip—he’s asked for me. All this time she’s kept us apart and let us believe that neither cared for the other. She has a heart of stone. No mother would do this to her child.”

  Beatriz reached out to me. “My lady, please, there must be some other explanation. Her Majesty would never do this. It’s too cruel. And she has been ill.”

  My eyes brimmed with tears. I brushed them away angrily. “Why should I believe anything they say anymore? I never spoke directly with her doctors. The old marquise told me my mother was close to death when I first arrived and look at her: she’s been traveling around Castile as she always has. No, there is no other explanation. She wants to lock me up in here to keep me from my husband and save Castile. She wants my son to be her heir!”

  Beatriz had gone white. “What will we do?” she whispered.

  I stared at her. A fraught silence fell. What could I do, with Cisneros’s men at my gates and my life reduced to these four thick walls?

  I whirled to a coffer, threw open its lid. “We must leave at once!” Dragging it to my dressing table I pushed my hairbrushes and vials of lotion and perfume into it, to a shattering of glass.

  “I’m done with it,” I cried, taking savage pleasure in hauling down the bed curtains, throwing them into the coffer, and marching past Beatriz to the side table to grab my candlesticks. “I’m done trying to please her! She won’t take my freedom. I won’t let her!”

  I whirled back to Beatriz, who stood still. “Stop looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind! Help me, for pity’s sake. Go get my child ready. He must come with us!”

  She jerked forward toward the nursery, where my babe had started to cry. I strode to the clothes pegs, taking down my gowns and capes. I tossed them into the coffer. I was at my bed, ripping at the fur coverlets, when as if from across an abyss, I heard approaching footsteps.

  I halted. At the doorway of the nursery, Beatriz likewise froze.

  I shifted from the bed. I had no weapon to defend myself with. The door opened. Soraya sauntered in with Lopez, just returned from the trip to town to purchase supplies. Lopez carried the box of candles I’d requested.

  My breath hissed through my teeth. Soraya flattened against the wall as I stalked up to Lopez. “I trusted you. I thought you were my friend. And you lied to me. You deceived me. You plot with my mother and Cisneros against me.”

  He stammered, “Your Highness, what—what is the matter?”

  I ripped out the letter. “Here is the matter, my lord: this letter from Cisneros the courier just brought. Would you deny you’ve been doing his will against me all this time?”

  The color drained from his face. The box of candles fell from his hand. “I—I do not understand. What does this letter say?”

  I stared at him. “Here. Take it. Read it, though you know very well what it says!”

  Lopez unfurled the crumpled parchment. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he looked at me. “I swear to Your Highness, I do not know what this means.”

  “You don’t?” I let out a shrill laugh. “Do you or do you not serve my lord Cisneros?”

  He drew himself erect, a small, trembling man. I thought in that instant I could push him to the floor and stomp on him and he’d not fight back. “I serve Her Majesty,” he said. “I can see how this might appear but I assure you neither I nor Her Majesty plots against you. The archbishop has exceeded his authority. I will return word and tell him so myself.”

  “Will you?” I took a step to him, saw him flinch. “Then why are you sweating like a pig?”

  “You—you misunderstand.” His voice rose. “You distress yourself to no purpose.” He reached out a hand to me, as he had when we’d met together in Flanders.

  Why are you afraid?

  In that moment before his hand closed on my shoulder, I heard locks clang shut in my mind. I pushed him aside with enough force to send him tumbling to the floor. I fled the room.

  “Your Highness!” I heard him cry. But I was already running down the corridor, flying down the staircase into the hall, pausing only to kick off my shoes and gain speed as I dashed through the double doors into the keep.

  Mules loaded with supplies from Medina del Campo stood tethered to rungs in the wall. When I burst into the courtyard, they shied, whinnying. Tugging at their reins, the muleteer tried to control the frightened animals, the servants unloading the supplies pausing to stare at me as if the very demons of hell nipped at my heels.

  The portcullis had been raised, the drawbridge lowered. My chest burned as I sprinted forth. The retainers manning the drawbridge leapt to either side of the pulleys controlling the portcullis, releasing its brakes. A drizzle drifted from
the dark sky, turning the flagstones slick. I slid, cried out as I fell onto the hard stone flags. It knocked the breath out of me. Gasping, I struggled upright, feeling a trickle of blood seep down my forehead.

  The portcullis dropped on its oiled chains. From behind me, I heard Lopez yell, “Your Highness, no!” and I let out a thwarted roar as I skidded to a halt, barely missing the huge teeth of the portcullis as it slammed down. Another second, and it would have impaled me.

  I screamed at the retainers. “Open it! I command you to open it! Open it now!”

  Lopez came panting up behind me. I turned, blood dripping in my eye. I glared. “Tell them to open this gate now before I tear it down about your miserable head.”

  He regarded me in horrified disbelief. “Your Highness, this is a scandal. Please, come with me. There is no need for this.”

  “I am not your prisoner. Open this gate, I say. Open it!”

  Behind him, I saw my women rushing out of the castle, Beatriz with my discarded mantle, Soraya my shoes. Even from the distance I could discern their distress when they saw me at the portcullis. Guards stepped forth, barring their passage. I heard Beatriz lift her voice in outraged protest: “Her Highness is barefoot and without her cloak!”