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

by Gortner, C. W.

  I turned to look at my children now, fighting back the sharp pain and fear I had for them.

  With her errant gold curls and curious blue gaze, Isabella was at that precocious age when children relish in annoyances. She delighted in yanking off Eleanor’s headdresses, cackling with impish glee as Eleanor stomped her foot and cried she was no better than a changeling. She was at this very moment tugging at the threads hanging from Eleanor’s embroidery hoop, ruining my eldest daughter’s concentration.

  I clicked my tongue. “Isabella, hija mia, can’t you see your sister’s trying to sew?” I patted my lap. “Come here. Let me tell you a story of Spain.”

  Isabella promptly left Eleanor. She adored stories and would sit wide-eyed for hours as I spun tales of the crusades against the Moors and my parents’ struggle to unite Spain. Initially devised to pass the time, these stories had developed into my secret weapon. I might leave them for a very long time, but I wanted my daughter to know she had Spanish blood in her veins. Charles and Eleanor were older, reared to be Habsburgs, but Isabella was still young enough to be influenced. I hoped I could instill in her a memory that would counter any accusations about me she later might be subjected to.

  I hoisted her onto my lap—“Uff! How big you’re getting!”—and smoothed her ringlets. “Shall I tell you about Queen Urraca?”

  Isabella shook her head. “No. Tell me about Bebidal.”

  “Bo-ab-dil,” I corrected. “His name was Boabdil, and he was the last sultan of—”

  Raised voices in the corridors cut off my voice. I glanced at the door, rising from my chair when I heard footsteps marching toward us. My gaze fled to Beatriz. I clutched Isabella close. The apartment door crashed open.

  Guards tromped in, led by Don Manuel. With an ugly twist of a smile, he announced, “Don Lopez has been arrested in Antwerp as a spy.”

  For a second I could only stare at him. Beside me, Soraya and Beatriz clenched their embroidery to their chests like shields.

  “He…he is no spy,” I managed to say, my voice splitting along the seam as I realized my letter to the Cortes, which Lopez had carried, had not reached Spain.

  “Oh?” Don Manuel cocked his oversize head. “He had Your Highness’s own letters on him, which he attempted to bring on board a ship. There were official notifications there that he had no authority to convey.”

  I felt doom crash down around me. I lifted my chin. “I gave him the authority. It is you who should be arrested, my lord, for daring to lay hands on a servant of your queen.”

  At this, Madame de Halewin rose and took my pale-faced Eleanor by the hand. I tightened my arms about Isabella.

  “Your Highness,” said the governess in an impassive voice, “let me have the child. It is not fitting to subject her to this disgraceful situation.”

  Isabella cried, “No! I want to stay with Mamá!”

  Don Manuel barked, “Give Madame the child. And all of you, out! Now!”

  I released Isabella to Madame de Halewin, my hands turning to ice. Madame de Halewin hustled my daughters out. As Isabella’s terrified cries faded, that dark flame that had set me upon Philip’s whore flared and I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop from throwing myself like a shrieking devil at Don Manuel.

  “You have no right!” I hissed. “No right!”

  “I have every right,” he retorted, though he inched back into the phalanx of guards behind him. “I am here by order of His Highness the archduke. He commands that you have no further congress with anyone until his return.” He pointed at Beatriz and Soraya. “They must go.”

  Beatriz said through her teeth, “Over your dead body,” and as she took a furious step from my side, Don Manuel cried out in high-pitched panic, “Seize her! Seize her!”

  Two guards shifted forth, knocking over a gilded table. It toppled to the floor. Soraya grabbed up a vase. I whispered, “Soraya, no. Go with Beatriz. Do as they say.”

  The guards took hold of my women and pulled them struggling from the room.

  Scarlet seared my veins. Whirling to the hearth, I snatched up a poker. I advanced on Don Manuel, fully intending to bring it down on his head. A guard’s gauntleted hand shot out and gripped my wrist. The poker clattered to the floor.

  “I hope we won’t need to restrain Your Highness,” said Don Manuel, though he sounded far more frightened than menacing. Indeed, he looked like a deformed child in his overblown garb, hemmed in by our palace corps.

  I whispered, “By God, I’ll have your head for this.”

  His face twitched. He said, “I only fulfill my orders.” He motioned to the guards, already scampering to the door on his high-heeled shoes. “Let us go.”

  “Yes,” I taunted. “Go. Run like a cur, now that you’ve terrorized a roomful of women.”

  The door shut. From where I stood, I heard the guards ordered into place.

  The walls closed in around me.

  PHILIP ROARED IN A WEEK LATER, BARGING INTO MY ROOMS SMELLING of horse sweat and wine. “What? Do you take me for an idiot? Did you think I wouldn’t find out your silly game?”

  I looked up from my chair. “How nice of you to come home. Perhaps now you can see fit to release me. Or would you have it said you mistreat the mother of your unborn child?”

  I deliberately flung out the words because I had no other choice. I had not been allowed fresh clothes, to bathe myself, nor to have my women attend me. My chamber pot in the corner was full and reeking, as were several of the vases. My meals, shoved in through the guarded door on a tray, moldered. The entire suite smelled like a sewer.

  He paused. His narrow eyes raked over me. He looked almost fat, I thought, satiated on roast and good wine from time spent conniving with his Estates and God knew how many whores, his once-jutting but shapely chin nested in a florid roll of flesh. The beard he’d attempted to grow didn’t do much to distinguish him; its sparse coverage only enhanced the girth of his face.

  How had I ever found him desirable?

  He paused. “You’re with child?”

  “It will happen when a man forces himself on his wife,” I replied. “If I had disposed of the means, I’d have torn it from my womb with my bare hands.”

  “You must be mad to say such things,” he said, with a snort.

  I took hold of the armrests, hauling myself to my feet. The room reeled about me. I had been sitting so long I felt light-headed but I forced myself to laugh out loud.

  “Yes, I must be mad. Mad to have ever loved you, to have thought you had a shred of honor in that treacherous Habsburg body of yours. Mad to have believed all the lies you told me, over and over again. Mad to have ever thought you could love anyone but yourself.”

  I paused, gave him a smile that showed teeth. “But I am not so mad as to relinquish my crown. You can lie, betray me, keep me a prisoner for the rest of my days, but while I live you’ll never have Castile. I’ll see you dead before you ever sit on my throne.”

  He didn’t move an inch; then he suddenly leaned close, looming over me. “Do you realize what you’ve done, you stupid woman? You just handed Castile to your father.” He curled his meaty fist in my face. “You will write to the Cortes. You will tell the assembly you have no intention of depriving me of my legal rights.”

  I met his eyes. “I think not.”

  Without turning away, he bellowed, “Ambassador!”

  To my disgust, Don Manuel tripped in. I gave him a withering look. Behind him, an obviously nervous secretary hastily set a parchment on my desk. Taking me by the arm, Philip brought me to it. “You will sign it or I’ll have Lopez served to my hounds. In pieces.”

  “You’d not dare,” I scoffed. I ran my eyes over the tight lines of writing on the parchment, official lines, no doubt promulgating my ruin. Fear knifed through me.

  Philip said to Don Manuel, “Tell her.”

  The ambassador stepped forth. “Your Highness, Don Lopez is in prison. He is accused of espionage and treason. He’s also become grievously ill since hi
s…questioning. I fear if he does not receive medical attention soon, he may die.”

  I ignored him, lifting my stare to Philip. “What have you done?”

  “Only what that miserable spy deserved. Let’s see: First, he was put on the rack and stretched until his bones snapped. But he was too strong. Or is it stubborn? I never can tell with you people. Then he was introduced to an ingenious instrument called the Boot, developed by your own Holy Inquisition, I might add. That loosened his tongue well enough.”

  “You—you tortured him? But he is my servant!”

  “Your women are next,” Philip added. “Your beloved Beatriz and Soraya.” He sighed. “A pity it would be. As it is, they won’t last long. Their cell can barely contain them and the rats.”

  I wished I weren’t with child. I wished I were a man and could run him through with a sword. Because in that instant, I knew he would not hesitate to torture and kill a thousand women if he had to. His hunger for my crown, for power, had swept all other considerations aside.

  Nothing mattered, not if it got in the way of his ambition. I was not the one who was mad here. He was. Mad with power and his own overwhelming self-importance.

  I looked at the paper, willing my eyes to focus. I felt bathed in ice. It was addressed to the Cortes. I skipped the usual salutation, seeking the meat. When I found it, it took my breath away.

  Yet since I know it is said in Spain that I am mad, I must be allowed to speak in my defense, though I cannot help but wonder how such false witness is borne against me, for those who spread these rumors do so not against me but also against the Crown of Spain itself. I therefore command you make known to all who wish me ill that nothing save death could induce me to deprive my husband of his rightful governance over Castile, which I shall entrust to him upon my arrival in our kingdom.

  Given in Brussels in the month

  of May of the year 1505,

  I, Juana the Queen

  I looked up at Don Manuel. “Your work, I presume?”

  “Just sign it,” growled my husband. “We’ve no time for questions.”

  “Indeed?” I savored the moment, turning from his smoldering gaze and returning to my chair. “It seems that I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world. You sent a letter before to my mother and the Cortes, claiming I was mad. Now you want me to say I am not. You’d best make up your minds, for in the meantime my father rules as regent in my name until I say otherwise.”

  Rage suffused Philip’s face. Don Manuel wagged his hand at me. “Your Highness makes a grave mistake. Your father held his title in Castile through your mother, who is now deceased. He therefore has no further right to it, and not even the Cortes can prevail over popular sentiment. Fernando of Aragón was never liked. He’ll not rule in your name much longer.”

  “What do you know of my father?” I retorted. “You’re not fit to clean his boots! He’ll crush you under his heel like the miserable toad you are and I’ll applaud him when he does.”

  I caught the flicker of fear in his protruding eyes, contradicting his next words: “Your Highness, most grandes of importance have either sent a missive or representative swearing allegiance to His Highness. If you hope to ever assume your throne, you should think first before you refuse us this simple request.”

  I met his eyes. My fists clenched in my lap. Double-talk: the art of the ambassador. Two could play this game. “Very well. But in return, I too have a few requests.”

  “You are in no position to barter!” Philip slammed his hand on the table.

  I gave him a frigid smile. “I am the queen of Castile. Without my signature on that letter, you cannot order a single mule in Spain.”

  Don Manuel murmured, “It is true, Your Highness. We are running out of time.”

  Philip glared at me. “What do you want?”

  “My women. You will also free Lopez and send him back to Spain. And no guards; I am to bear your child. I’ll not be a prisoner. If you do these things, I will sign your letter.”

  The light leached from his eyes. Had we been alone, he wouldn’t have hesitated to beat me into submission. But we weren’t alone. He’d brought Don Manuel and his by now agitated secretary to bear witness to my “voluntary” signing. He would not want it bantered about that he had coerced me by force.

  “Fine,” he snarled. “Now sign.”

  I stood. “Don Manuel, you heard my husband. I pray you remind him of his promises.” I went to the desk, inked a quill, and scrawled my signature.

  Philip stalked out, Don Manuel and the secretary scurrying behind. Only then did I grasp at the desk’s edge. I felt my knees give way. For the first time, I felt the child in my womb quicken with a sharp kick. I took it as a sign.

  I had won a victory, bought at a terrible price, yes, but a victory nevertheless.

  And thus, step by step, would I win the war.

  THE DAYS THREADED WITHOUT END. THE GUARDS WERE REMOVED; once again the palace was open to me. But I did not leave my chambers, knowing that the moment my letter reached Spain it would prompt those few who might have remained loyal to my father to declare for Philip. He promised riches, titles. I had said I would make him king. Only the very brave or foolish would continue to support my father now. I prayed Papá could still convince the Cortes that my letter must have been obtained by force, for I’d never willingly deprive him of the defense of my kingdom.

  On September 15, 1505, I took to my bed and bore my fifth child, a daughter Philip ordered christened Mary in honor of his late mother. Immediately after the birth he departed again, leaving me under Don Manuel’s guard and the care of my few loyal women.

  My new babe was healthy, with the Habsburg skin and a shock of wiry red hair. But I did not enjoy her for long. Soon after the birth I fell ill for the first time with that often-lethal ailment of new mothers—milk fever. The doctors expressed immediate consternation and advised Don Manuel to lift any restrictions imposed on me. Don Manuel agreed, though not before he first sent Mary and her wet nurse off to Savoy, to join my other children with their tante Margaret.

  From my sickbed, I summoned preternatural strength to pen another letter to Margaret, which Beatriz entrusted to the wet nurse. In it, I implored her to remember my children were innocents and mustn’t be used. I entrusted them to her care until I could be reunited with them.

  The fever came close to killing me. As soon as my letter was sent, I succumbed to a fiery hell. Later, Beatriz told me of her and Soraya’s constant vigil at my side, watching helplessly as I thrashed for days, delirious and inchoate. Not until late October did I recover sufficiently to leave my bed; not until November did I have enough strength to venture into the gardens to partake of the fresh wintry air.

  Only one thing gave me satisfaction: his anxious inquiries and daily visits proved that the mere thought of my demise provoked heart-stopping terror in Don Manuel. My death would be a disaster for him and Philip. Without me, they had nothing. By law, my father could set my son on the throne and rule in his name as regent. The dream of a Habsburg Spain, which had torn apart our lives, would be over before it had even begun.

  I had no intention of dying. The doctors might pronounce my survival miraculous, but I knew my time had not come. With my fur-lined cowl over my head and my hands in a muff, I sat in the garden for hours, watching darkness overcome the leaden sky, my shadow freezing on the hard ground. Snow fluttered in the air. I hoped it would bury Flanders in a glacial tomb.

  It was here that Don Manuel came to me. Beatriz stood, a flush to her cheeks. She hated him even more than I did. I motioned her to step aside and regarded him coolly as he bowed low, almost upsetting the huge beaver skin hat on his head. He was all deference, indicating something of import had taken place. “Your Highness, I bring good news. Our letter reached Castile and the summons from the Cortes has come. We’ll depart for Spain as soon as arrangements are made.”

  I absorbed this news without a word. He bowed again, hand on the hat, then pulled his thick cape a
bout his little person and hurried away.

  I looked at Beatriz. Around us the snow gathered strength, blurring the outlines of the shrouded fruit trees and topiary cut in the shape of rampant beasts.

  For the first time in our years together, my devoted lady and friend did not notice my disquiet. She embraced me. “Finally, princesa, we are going home!”

  Home.

  “Yes,” I said softly. “So it begins.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I stood before Brandenburg Bay, which churned like an enormous cauldron, lacerated by the high winds and causing our fleet of top-heavy galleons to bob in the water like gilded corks. It was the start of the winter storm season; not even the hardiest of fishermen would dare brave a trip by sea at a time like this. But winter’s fury meant nothing to my husband—not if it came between him and his ultimate ambition.

  I smiled.

  After dispatching my letter, Philip had had no choice but to reach accord with my father, after which he ordered a flurry of preparations to rival the intensity of the winter storms. Now he strode about like a king anointed, shouting orders left and right with Don Manuel scampering at his heels, and leaving me to mull over this unexpected turn of events. I wished I had Lopez here with me, to help me unravel the tangled skeins whereby I found myself bound for Spain.

  Of course, I already knew Philip had no intention of honoring any accord he had with my father or indeed anyone else. He’d break it as soon as he could, had in fact already broken it, at least in his mind. If not, why gather his entire guard and corps of German mercenaries? Why this arsenal of crossbows, swords, and lances and this fleet of seventy-odd ships? There could be no other explanation. My husband prepared for war.