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

by Gortner, C. W.

  I hugged her close. Under the padded gown, which she wore to disguise the wasting of her flesh, I felt bone. “Mamá,” I said, in a voice only she could hear, “I love you.”

  I felt her emotion overtake her as with a trembling hand she tucked the stray hairs back under my hood. “I have always asked so much of you,” she said. “Be strong. Remember who you are.” She embraced me. In my ear, she breathed, “I love you too, hija mia. I always loved you.”

  I could not see through my haze of tears. I clung to her as I might cling to a rock in a raging torrent. “I will come back. I promise you.”

  The admiral shifted to us. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, I fear the tide will not wait.”

  Her fingers gripped mine. Then she let go. The emptiness she left seemed vast as the sea that awaited me. She motioned to the admiral. “My lord, please see Her Highness safely out.”

  The admiral offered me his arm. I looked up into his beautiful, sad eyes and terror gripped me, just as it had all those years ago. I could not feel my own legs as I moved with him to the rowboat that would convey me and my two women to the ship docked at the bay’s opening.

  I clutched the admiral’s arm. “Will you keep my son safe, my lord?”

  He said softly, “Your Highness, I’ll guard him with my life. Do not fear.”

  I nodded, glanced again over my shoulder. My mother looked so small, indistinct now on her chair. The admiral helped me down the water steps and into the rowboat.

  “Thank you, my lord,” I whispered. “You will take care of her?”

  He bowed low. “I will remain at her side, princesa, and be here when you return. May God protect you.” He kissed my hand. Before he drew back, he lifted his eyes to me and I saw in their depths a stalwart resolve that gave me strength.

  I nodded and turned away.

  The rowers took up their oars. We crested the waves. The figures on the dock receded, grew smaller, more distant, until they eventually faded from view.

  TWENTY

  The moonlit sky dipped into the sea, submerging a thousand stars. On deck, I stared into the endless darkness, mustering the courage I knew I would require.

  Soon I would reunite with Philip and everything that had come between us. I had to stay steadfast, knowing I fought for the good of Spain and my sons. I did not know what awaited me; I did not know who the man who had forsaken me in Spain had become.

  I held out very little hope.

  When a footstep came behind me I looked around. Beatriz and I stood together in silence. I finally whispered, “I am afraid,” and it felt as though the entire world shuddered. She took my hand in hers. “I know, princesa.”

  On the seventh day, we arrived in Flanders.

  RAIN AND MIST OBSCURED THE QUAY AND FLAT MEADOWS. AN ENTOURAGE waited for me, swathed in oiled cloaks. I didn’t recognize anyone, pondering them when a strange, elegantly dressed figure emerged.

  He was only a little taller than a dwarf, an odd, sallow-skinned man, his features overpowered by a jutting chin tipped with a goatee. Cinder-black eyes gleamed above a hooked nose; his mouth was a wide gash with uneven teeth. Yet when he spoke his voice was disarmingly melodious, his words in perfect Castilian. “Your Highness, it is my honor to welcome you home.”

  I regarded him warily. “Have we met, my lord?”

  He inclined his head. “I’ve not yet had the privilege. I am Don Juan Manuel, Spanish ambassador to the Habsburg court. I previously had the honor of serving Her Majesty your mother at the Imperial court of Vienna. His Highness the archduke sent me to escort you.”

  I vaguely recalled his family name. “Your aunt, she is my sister Catalina’s duenna?”

  “Yes, my aunt Doña Elvira currently resides with the infanta Catalina in England.” He gave me an obsequious smile. “Your Highness honors us with her recollection.”

  I had no use for flattery, not in this dreary downpour after weeks at sea. I looked past him to the litter and horses. Standards hung sodden, held by pages in sopping livery. Only a few officials and this envoy to welcome me: a pauper’s reception. It spoke volumes.

  “Where is my husband?” I said.

  Don Manuel sighed, “Ah, but of course. Your Highness could not have heard. You were at sea when word came to us of a peace settlement between France and Spain.”

  “Oh?” I wasn’t sure of his loyalties and decided the less I revealed the better. “What has this to do with my husband?”

  He bowed. “Princesa, if you would accompany me to your litter, I shall explain. You will be proud of His Highness, most proud.”

  I caught Beatriz’s eye and had to suppress unexpected laughter. This was absurd. Here I was in day-old soiled clothing, weary to the bone, having left my child and a dying mother behind, and he honestly thought I’d take pride in Philip’s dubious accomplishments?

  “I’m certain I will,” I managed to murmur.

  WRAPPED IN FUR AGAINST the chill, I listened in silence as Don Manuel relayed how Philip had apparently single-handedly negotiated a break in the hostilities over Naples. It wasn’t clear to me if my father or Louis had sued first for peace, but whichever the case, Philip had gone once again to Paris. It had happened suddenly, Don Manuel said, though of course a courier had been dispatched at once to him as soon as word came that I was on my way.

  I did not comment. Reassuring as I found the news of a peace, I’d still arrived to uncertainty. And I had learned that anything Philip did in the political arena was rarely what it seemed.

  We reached Ghent by nightfall. The florid palace looked dark, shuttered, a few lone torches illuminating its gilded facade. Everyone in residence, Don Manuel told me, had retired. No one had been certain when my ship might dock, and my children were always put to bed directly after supper, to “aid their digestion.”

  “We can of course wake them if you like,” he added.

  “No, let them sleep.” I pulled my cloak tighter about me. The palace reminded me of a filigree ornament in comparison to the stark edifices of Spain. An overpowering feeling of emptiness came over me, as though this realm of gardens and laughter, where I’d given birth to my children and known such fleeting happiness, were a conjuror’s illusion.

  Together with Beatriz and Soraya, I entered a home I no longer recognized.

  I AWOKE TO SUNLIGHT SEEPING THROUGH DAMASK CURTAINS. Lifting myself on my elbows, I stared in momentary bewilderment at my surroundings. Then I slid from the bed to pad barefoot to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes.

  The gardens below me were drenched in morning light, the colors of the roses so profligate it hurt my eyes. I turned back to the room. A night’s sleep had done little to soothe my discomfort. Everything still looked strange, garish, overblown. Had I ever felt comfortable in these rooms?

  Beatriz entered with my breakfast. Moments later Madame de Halewin appeared, svelte as ever in ash-gray, silvery white threading her immaculate coif. She curtsied, expressing all the appropriate sentiments required for my return and for the loss of Doña Ana, whose body had been sent to Spain for entombment.

  I had to bite back a rush of tears. I would have done anything at that moment now to have my duenna’s abrasive presence at my side.

  “Is there anything Your Highness requires of me?” said Madame, as if we had only the most formal of acquaintance.

  “There is. I wish to see my children. Bring them once I have bathed and dressed.”

  I disposed of a wardrobe replete with gowns, cloaks, hoods, sleeves, and shoes; before my departure for Spain I’d ordered everything I did not take with me packed into sandalwood chests scented with lavender, in anticipation of my return. The court attire that had traveled with me was by now hopelessly soiled; yet when Beatriz asked if I wanted her to fetch a few of my stored gowns (for the wardrobe was kept in a different part of the palace), I shook my head. I chose instead one of the black brocade dresses we’d made from the Venetian cloth.

  Don Manuel accompanied Madame de Halewin and the children. In th
e cold light of day he seemed an unlikely choice for a Spanish envoy. During his time at the emperor’s court, he’d adopted a continental mode of dress, with costly satin and abbreviated slashed breeches, and rings on every finger. In a manner, he reminded me of the Marquis of Villena, and yet he had served Spain for many years, his family one of noble descent. I couldn’t think of a single reason to dislike him, and still there was something about him that reminded me of rank meat.

  Ignoring his platitudes, I turned to my children.

  Three perfect strangers stood before me. I knew my three-year-old Isabella at once, for her blue eyes and the shy, curious smile that touched her lips when I beckoned. After she submitted self-consciously to my embrace, she held on to my hand, inspecting the ruby ring my father had sent me in honor of little Fernando’s birth.

  “You have a brother in Spain,” I said, encompassing my other children with my smile. “He hopes to meet you soon. I had to leave him. He is too young for a long voyage.” I paused, motioned to my eldest daughter. “Eleanor, my dear, come closer.”

  Eleanor took a wary step forward. At six, she was tall for her age, thin and somber-faced, her curtsy executed with stilted precision. I was about to ask if she remembered me when she said abruptly, “Is Tante Margaret coming to visit?” making it clear that in my absence she had bonded with her aunt, with whom she’d spent many months in Savoy.

  “No,” I said quietly. “Not that I am aware of.”

  If my eldest daughter was disconcerting, my eldest son proved even more so, his anemic gaze uncanny, his disinterest in me, indeed in anyone save his head tutor, Bishop Utrecht, all too apparent. Like Eleanor, Charles responded to my questions in polite monosyllables, though he did at one point ask if I’d brought him a gift. Taken aback by his request, I plucked the ruby ring from my finger. “Your grandfather in Spain gave me this.” I watched him eye the gem in expert appraisal before he tucked it into his doublet. He bowed, thanking me with an indifference that made me cringe.

  “Did Grandfather send me anything?” Isabella piped. I nodded. “A pair of pearl earrings. I’ll get them for you later.” I pulled her close, reveling in her squirm. She alone of my children showed any sign of warmth.

  It was not the reunion I’d envisioned and I set myself to investigating their circumstances. I found everything in order, albeit regimented by the inflexible rules of how royal children ought to be raised. Eleanor disposed of her own household of ladies, overseen by the ever-efficient Madame de Halewin. And I could see she had an educational schedule of impressive breadth, proof of the influence my erudite sister-in-law had over her upbringing. Not even my sisters and I had enjoyed such a demanding array of studies, yet Eleanor seemed content, her sole complaint that Tante Margaret lived so far away. I promised her we would have Margaret visit us soon, quelling the sting of resentment that in a mere two years I should find myself a suppliant for my eldest daughter’s affection. I could hardly accuse Margaret of caring too well for her.

  Utrecht informed me Charles had a “delicate constitution,” which apparently justified the army of officials surrounding him. I did not like the isolation my son dwelled under; the grueling daily lessons and protocol that did not allow him to go to the privy without three attendants. Recalling how my brother, Juan, had loved to ride and shoot with the bow, indeed how all of us had relished being outdoors, I suggested Charles should engage in activities normal for every child. The bishop retorted that His Highness would be taught all the requisite physical skills once he reached the proper age. Surely, I did not wish for my only son to be injured while swinging a sword or riding some unruly beast?

  “He is not my only son,” I said, a lump in my throat. I turned away, though not before I issued the command that henceforth all three of my children must enjoy at least two hours of fresh air every day, free of books and responsibilities.

  As the days wore on and I waited for word of Philip’s return, I tried to adapt to the monotony of life in Flanders. I joined my children in the gardens when the weather permitted, sewed and read and wrote letters, ate informally with my women. All along, a quiet dread built inside of me.

  Then Don Manuel came to inform me that Philip was due back in May. On the morning before his scheduled arrival, I awoke early and summoned Beatriz. “Help me select a gown, and have Soraya fetch my pearls from my wardrobe. I would greet him like a queen.”

  Beatriz brought me a crimson gown cut in the Spanish fashion. As I sat before the mirror while she brushed out my hair and started to coil it into a coiffure, Soraya entered. There was a pause. Beatriz barked, “Stop dragging your feet. Her Highness wants her jewels today, not next week.”

  I watched Soraya’s unsteady reflection in the tarnished glass as she came to my side. Her hands were empty; her eyes averted. “Princesa, there is nothing there.”

  “What do you mean?” said Beatriz impatiently. “Of course they’re there, you stupid girl! I put them in the vault myself before we left for Spain.”

  Soraya dipped into her pocket, brought out the set of keys. “I looked.” She met my gaze. “Princesa,” she repeated. “There is nothing there.”

  “Impossible!” snapped Beatriz. I stood, an evil prickle creeping down my spine. “Beatriz, go fetch Madame de Halewin. Tell her to meet me in my wardrobe.” Throwing a short cloak over my gown, I marched with my hair half-dressed toward the wing where my clothes were kept, ignoring the startled servants in the corridors.

  I couldn’t stop my gasp when I entered my private closet. We had left a room filled with neatly packed coffers and chests of personal belongings; what lay before me now was pure wreckage, the coffers strewn haphazardly about the chamber, their painted lids flung open, clothing crumpled on the floor beside them. I saw at once that all I had left was informal wear, my older dresses and day gowns. When I spotted one of the light linen dresses from my summers in the Alhambra, I felt hot color rise in my cheeks. I went straight to the panel in the wall and clicked the lever. Soraya had not relocked it. As I opened the hinged door onto the hollow compartment cleverly fitted into the wainscoting, I knew she had not lied.

  My jewel caskets had been ransacked, as well.

  Behind me, Madame de Halewin said, “Your Highness sent for me?”

  I turned. Her expression was impassive, as though she beheld an organized royal closet and not the blatant evidence of thievery.

  “Who has been in this room?”

  To her credit, she had the presence of mind to pause. I was reminded in a flash of my first weeks in Flanders, when she so assiduously guided me into sending Doña Ana and my matrons away. I had forgiven and forgotten, kept her in my employ because of her qualities as a governess and lifelong service at court. Now I regarded her as though she were an avowed foe.

  “I have no idea,” she finally said, and she clamped her lips in a thin line.

  I took a step to her. “You have no idea? My personal jewelry is missing, including many gifts from His Highness. My coffers have been opened and searched, my best court gowns taken. I find it hard to believe, madame, that you do not know how this occurred.”

  She started to inch back over the threshold. In a flash, Beatriz barred her way.

  “You’ll not leave this room until you tell me the truth,” I informed Madame. I took pleasure in watching her always-pale face turn a sickly shade of white. “Should you persist in your silence, I will dismiss you from Eleanor’s household and from this court.”

  That hit a nerve, perhaps the only one she had. She was not young. She had devoted her life to service, first as a governess to Margaret and now to my daughter. She had no family, no life other than this one. I could almost see the calculations scrabbling through her mind, the weights and counterweights to my threat, the consideration that I truly did not hold the power to see her banished without Philip’s consent, as she was, in the final say, answerable only to him.

  But I was not to be trifled with, and after a long moment in which our gazes locked, she drew herself erect.
“I will deny I said anything if questioned, but His Highness allowed a lady into this room.” Her voice was mechanical, as if she recited the evening menu. “His Highness told her you were in Spain and might never return, so why should your belongings go to waste? He said there were gowns and jewels aplenty, and pretty things should be displayed on pretty women. She came in with him and took what she fancied.”

  Behind Madame, Beatriz went still as a pillar.

  “Who is this lady?” I whispered.

  “A Frenchwoman, from the court of France; she came and went with His Highness. That is all I know.” Madame raised her chin. “The princess Eleanor awaits me. Will that be all?”

  I lifted a hand. She curtsied and swept past Beatriz. I saw in my lady’s stunned expression what she did not say aloud. I turned my eyes to the room, taking in the destruction, the callous disregard and utter violation of my privacy.

  Then I turned and walked out.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I awaited him clad in crimson, my figure displayed to perfection, down to the alabaster nudity of my hands and throat. About me, my women sewed, though Beatriz barely glanced at her embroidery hoop and Soraya looked as if she might lunge to her feet at any moment. I had my daughters with me, as well, Eleanor stiff in the window seat, while Isabella turned the gilt-edged pages of my book of hours. I would have had Charles with me too, only Utrecht had insisted my son had a slight cold and must stay in his apartments for the day.

  When the distant blare of trumpets came, Madame de Halewin stood. “His Highness is here. We must go into the courtyard to greet him.”

  “No.” I did not look up from my sewing. “Let him come here to greet us.”

  “But Your Highness, it is customary—”

  “I said no. You will sit, madame. Now.”