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

by Gortner, C. W.

  So did I. Only I didn’t need a single soldier to initiate it.

  Philip strode to me. He wore topaz brocade shot with gold, his cloak lined in marten. He’d been exercising tirelessly for weeks, tilting at the joust, practicing his archery and swordplay, losing the excess weight and regaining that muscled frame that now seemed to block out everything around me.

  “It is time.” He glanced peremptorily at my women. “They’ll have to travel with the others of our suite. There’s no room on the flagship.”

  “Beatriz and Soraya go where I go,” I replied. “They can sleep in my cabin. I am forced to leave my children behind. Surely, you don’t expect me to make any more sacrifices?”

  He stared at me. I met his eyes, ice against ice. Though I still felt the remnants of sorrow that our youthful love had degenerated into this dangerous game of wills, there was really nothing left in my heart for him. I looked on him as I might a stranger.

  “Do as you will,” he said. “Only be quick about it, or I’ll leave you behind.” He strode away. I followed at a leisurely pace, boarding the rowboat that would bring us to our galleon, providing it didn’t roll over and drown us first.

  Night closed in, obscuring the shore.

  I did not look back. I had already decided I would never again return to Flanders.

  ON THE THIRD DAY, AS WE ROUNDED THE COAST OF BRITTANY, A bird dropped out of the sky and fell at my feet. I looked down at the panting, feathered body, about to kneel when I saw a nearby sailor genuflect fervently. “No, Your Highness, don’t touch it. It is an omen!”

  I chuckled. “Nonsense. It’s a poor sparrow that’s lost its way.” I scooped up the creature as it feebly beat its wings. One wing was crooked. Wondering if it was broken, I looked about for Beatriz.

  The sailor watched me with terrified eyes. “I beg Your Highness to toss it into the sea. Please, for the love of God. It will blight our voyage.”

  I laughed and went to my cabin, where I set the sparrow on my berth. After dipping a goblet into the barrel of fresh water outside, I fed it droplets with my fingers, crooning as if to a child. I wrapped my shawl about it, lulled it to sleep in this makeshift nest as twilight fell and the sea’s murmur sang with the creaking of the ship and whoosh of sails.

  Beatriz came to tell me that everyone on board was talking about a winged beast that had come to curse the ship. I motioned at the tiny bundle. “Here’s your winged beast: a simple, tired sparrow. Now, go fetch me a cup of hot broth. I’ll feed it until it’s strong enough to fly again.” As I spoke, I felt unexpected warmth in my chest.

  Perhaps my heart wasn’t as dead as I’d thought, after all.

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, THE STORM HIT. THE SKY TO THE WEST turned a dark crimson, awash in tattered burgundy-black clouds. A menacing darkness overcame the fleet, whipping the sea into savage heights and consuming everything in its path like a gigantic maw.

  In our cabin, my women and I raced to clear the floor, stacking the table and chairs at the far corner and shoving my chests against them. I stored the bleating sparrow in a perforated coffer where I kept my pittance of jewels, nestling it safely inside.

  Outside, the wind howled, flinging down icy rain. The ship began to careen as if it were on wheels, its rolling motion growing increasingly violent as the sea heaved. Huddled with my women, I listened to the crashing of mountainous waves up and over deck railings, the desperate clamor of the crew as they fought to save us from destruction.

  Then came a piercing splintering sound, followed by panicked yelling. Instants later, the galleon started to keel. Soraya keened while Beatriz began whispering prayers to every saint she could think of. I, in turn, began to get a feel for the motion, which was a little like riding a wild stallion. It was an exhilarating, completely unexpected sensation. I felt alive. Alive and free.

  The ship groaned upright. I gave a sudden giggle. Drowned with the husband I’d come to loathe and his foppish suite: what an epigraph it would make!

  “Come,” I said to my ladies. “We shall go outside.”

  “Outside?” repeated Beatriz, as though I’d declared I would throw myself from the prow.

  “Yes.” Supporting myself with hands against the wall, I moved toward the door. Despite the dire situation, Beatriz was not about to forgo her responsibility. She came after me with a cloak, sickly green as she was. When I wrenched open the door, the wind leapt at us like a feral pet. Braced against the high tower railing, I gazed on pandemonium below, the Flemish nobles racing about in hysterics in their sopping finery while deckhands struggled to secure the cracked mast and keep the galleon afloat.

  I spotted Don Manuel, a drenched monkey in his soaking brown velvets. Philip was at his side, his figure grotesquely misshapen. What on earth…? I peered. A burst of laughter tore from my lips. My husband wore an inflated leather sack! Even from where I stood, I could discern bold red words splashed in ink across his chest: El rey Don Felipe.

  I tossed back my head, laughing uproariously. El rey! The king! So in case he fell overboard and managed to float ashore, he’d not be mistaken for a common sailor. It was so ridiculous I would not have believed it had I not seen it for myself.

  Beatriz cried out, “We must pray for safe passage to the nearest port!”

  “That would be England,” I said. “But not to fret. I’ve never heard of a king who drowned.”

  I must confess that had we sunk that day, I would have gone down a happy woman.

  BATTERED AND WITH SEVERAL SHIPS LOST, WE LANDED ON THE coast of Essex, where the local gentry made haste to accommodate us, surrendering for our use a small manor. Word was sent to King Henry VII. Two days later, I awoke to find that my husband, Don Manuel, and the majority of the Flemish suite had gone, leaving me behind with my few servants.

  “Gone?” I said furiously to Philip’s sneezing chamberlain, who, like most of the Flemish, had caught a nasty ague. “Where did they go? Tell me this instant!”

  The chamberlain was in no position to deny me. He had seen my bravura on board during the storm and probably believed I was indeed as mad as Philip claimed. “To court,” he muttered miserably. “Word came from His Majesty of England that he would receive them.”

  “Receive us, you mean,” I retorted and I stormed back to my rooms. With the fleet dry-docked for repairs, it could be days, weeks even, before we were ready to set sail again and I was not about to sit here twiddling my thumbs while Philip and Don Manuel created God knew what mischief with the Tudor. I was the queen of Spain and my sister Catalina had lived in England for several years, having been betrothed anew to her late husband’s brother, Prince Henry. Her position here would make ignoring me quite difficult. I was eager to see my sister again after so many years, and wasn’t going to let the chance pass me by.

  While my women set themselves to countering the pervasive damp by lighting braziers all around the room we shared and countering the boredom by airing any gowns they could salvage from my waterlogged coffers, I set the sparrow in a cage by the window and sat at the table to write a letter. When I was done, I handed it to Soraya, along with a few gold coins. “Find someone to deliver this to court.” I looked at Beatriz as Soraya hurried out. “Either they send an escort or I’ll go to them. It’s their choice.”

  Three days later, a missive came. I expected an official invitation; instead, to my surprise, it was from my sister, just a few lines, but enough to raise the hair on my nape.

  “What does she say?” Beatriz asked anxiously, Soraya looking on.

  “She wants me to come to Windsor Castle in secret,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”

  A SLASH OF LIGHTNING ILLUMINED THE STONE PILE OF WINDSOR Castle, perched atop a forested hill like a massive toadstool.

  The messenger who’d brought Catalina’s letter guided us on our horses into a cobblestone courtyard. After we dismounted, we were led into the castle proper, traversing several galleries before the messenger paused at a brass-studded door. Within, we found a spacious chamber furn
ished with oak chairs, a table, various painted coffers, and an upholstered bench before the hearth. The hearth was huge, built right into the wall, the snapping fire in its depth casting more gloom than light. I glimpsed another door in the far wainscoting, leading into what I assumed were the bedchamber and privy. A velvet curtain glittering with embroidered stars partially covered an embrasure. This was a privileged person’s suite.

  I turned to ask the messenger if my sister would meet us here. But he had vanished, closing the door and leaving Beatriz and me alone.

  I unclasped my cloak. “I can’t believe we actually made it here without being noticed,” I said uneasily as I moved to the hearth. “Surely, if nothing else, Philip set someone to watch me. Maybe the letter was a ruse, to get me here without ceremony, though I can’t imagine why.”

  “Neither can I—” said Beatriz, and then she let out a gasp.

  I turned. And froze.

  A figure stepped from behind the curtain into the light—a small woman, dressed in a gown without rustle or sheen, her coiffed head bowed. I understood Beatriz’s reaction. The woman bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother, down to the glimmer of gold hair under her hood.

  As I struggled for my voice, the woman dropped into a curtsy.

  “Su Majestad,” she uttered. She lifted her face. In the muted glow of the hearth, ethereal blue eyes shone at me like a forgotten memory.

  With a muffled cry, I went and embraced her, kissing my sister’s cheeks, her mouth and nose, my tears overflowing. When I finally drew back, I found myself staring straight into Catalina’s somber gaze.

  “They know you are here,” she said, glancing to the door. “My messenger is one of the few trusted servants I have left. Unfortunately, we’ve little time.”

  “They?” I stared. I could not reconcile this staid, stalwart woman with the pretty laughing child I had last seen in Spain.

  “His Grace King Henry and your husband,” she said. “The archduke told the king you’d taken ill from the voyage, but then your letter came and no one knew what to do. I found out and discovered where you were lodged. I feared you might not come.”

  “I see,” I said, though I seethed. Of course Philip had told Henry Tudor I was ill. He’d do anything he could to keep me away from this court, which meant he was up to no good.

  Catalina went on, “If they ask, you must tell them you decided to come on your own. Don’t let them know I wrote to you, whatever you do. I have so few confidants these days. I wouldn’t want those who serve me to come under suspicion for relaying news not meant for my ears.”

  I nodded. There were sunken circles about her eyes, thin lines at the corners of her pale mouth. She was not yet twenty-three and she looked twice her age. What had happened to her?

  “Catalina,” I said, reaching for her hands, “you speak as if you were in danger. Why?”

  She looked away. I brought her to the bench before the hearth. Without my needing to tell her a word, Beatriz went to stand vigil at the door.

  Catalina let go of my hand; I saw in the light that her fingers were reddened, chafed by chilblains. I knew then that wherever she lived, this was not her room. Her gown too looked threadbare. It was evident she did not thrive in England. Indeed, her hands were those of a common charwoman, not the cherished future queen of the Tudor heir.

  I bit back my fury. “You must tell me who has done this to you.”

  “The king.” Her voice was low, hesitant. “He has forbidden me from coming to court, but I disobeyed him.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I had to. You are the only one who can help me.”

  “But I don’t understand, pequeñita. Are you not betrothed to Prince Henry? Why would he forbid you from coming to court?”

  Her smile was unrevealing. I thought with a pang that she had our mother’s smile, gracious, yet remote. She reached into her gown pocket, withdrew a paper. “Mamá wrote this to me before she died. Perhaps you should read it. It will explain my circumstances better than I can.”

  For a moment, I could not move. The entire room seemed to darken at its edges, crouch in around me. I took the letter, shifted so that the firelight fell on the page.

  The parchment was worn, indicating Catalina had been carrying it with her. Undated, lacking salutation and seal, my mother’s painfully familiar handwriting raced across the page without interruption, a fervent outpouring of her thoughts engraved in fading ink.

  I breathed deep.

  I write to you on the eve of my death; and my desire to go unto God is marred only by my concern for those I must leave behind. You cannot know, being so far away, how much I suffer for you in this trying time. You must be strong, hija mia, stronger than you’ve ever been. The dispensation has finally been sent from Rome and should reach England by the time you receive this letter. You can rejoice in knowing that His Holiness has decreed the affinity between you and Prince Henry valid, as your marriage to Arthur was never consummated. Only the most evil of men would dare dispute your maidenhood now. I cannot be here to protect you, but God is with you always, and justice shall prevail. I pray that you will have no further need for succor, but should it come to pass that the dispensation is not sufficient, you must rely on Juana. I shall write to her as I write to you, asking her to use her power as queen of Castile to coerce the Tudor, if necessary, into honoring your betrothal. I know she loves you dearly and will not forsake you. As for myself, I carry you in my heart always, and from that glorious place where we all must go, I shall watch over you and guide you with my spirit.

  Your devoted mother,

  Isabel

  The letter crinkled in my trembling hands. I looked at Catalina. “I never received it,” I whispered. “I never received her letter.”

  “It must have gotten lost. Mine took nearly two months after her death to arrive.”

  “It was not lost.” I checked my sudden fury. I had to focus on Catalina now. Time enough there would be to exact revenge on that miscreant Don Manuel, who had kept my mother’s last letter from me. “Tell me why the king refuses to honor your betrothal to the prince. I must know everything if I am to help you.”

  In a flat voice, she said, “You remember Prince Arthur died a fortnight after our marriage? Well, during my widowhood, King Henry’s queen, Elizabeth, brought me to live at court. She was very kind, and when my period of mourning ended she suggested Prince Henry and I be betrothed. His Grace agreed. He wrote to Mamá, and she initiated negotiations to obtain a dispensation from Rome, as Henry is my brother-in-law. I swore before witnesses that Arthur and I never consummated our marriage, and no one thought we would be denied.”

  She paused. Her hands bunched in her lap, just as they had in times of frustration in the classroom, when she couldn’t master a particularly trying lesson. Like me, she did not suffer failure gladly. “Then Queen Elizabeth died in childbed. His Grace was beside himself with grief, as were we all, for she was a gracious and loving woman. Still, His Grace assured me that his council would ratify my and Henry’s betrothal, as that had been his wife’s last desire.”

  A brief smile illumined Catalina’s drawn face. “I cannot tell you how happy it made me, even in my mourning for the queen. Henry and I had grown fond of one another in a way Arthur and I never did, and I began to prepare for when the marriage would take place.”

  “And then what happened?” I asked, dreading her reply.

  “Mamá died.” She stated it without visible emotion, though I knew she must have felt a deep pain inside. “Overnight, the king sent me to live in a dower manor by the Thames. He reduced my allowance to such an extent, I did not have money to support my household, and many of my servants deserted me. I had to pawn my plate for food. I wrote to His Grace every day to remonstrate, but he replied that he was not responsible for my predicament. If I was in such dire need, he advised I ask Papá for money. I was but a guest in England, he said, and not his ward. Then he—”

  Her voice caught. “He told me the pope had sent word that my marriage to H
enry would be incestuous, as I had been wed to his brother. I repeated that on my honor, I am a virgin. Arthur and I never consummated our marriage, but he refuses to believe me. Since that time, I’ve learned that Rome did issue the dispensation, and the king lied because he seeks another bride for Henry. He has left me to fend for myself. My duenna, Doña Manuel, insisted I write to you, but when I heard you had left Flanders for Spain, I decided to wait. I did write to Papá, however. He never replied.” She searched my face. “He is not ill, is he?”

  “No. Not that I’m aware of.” My own voice throbbed. I wanted to tear down this castle with my bare hands. My beautiful sister, a princess of Spain in the prime of her youth, forced to endure penury and humiliation at the hands of an upstart Tudor, whose lineage was bastard-sprung. And Philip had been roistering with him for days now, while I’d been left unaware. I now understood why he had snuck away, why no summons for my presence had been issued. No one wanted Catalina and me to meet. No one wanted me to discover the outrageous neglect she had been subjected to.

  I came to my feet. “Beatriz!” My lady came to us. “Tell the man outside to prepare our mounts.” I held out my hand to Catalina. “Come, pequeñita. We are leaving.”

  My sister rose. A frown creased her brow. “Leaving? I think you’ve misunderstood. When I said I needed your help, I did not mean I wished to leave.”

  I paused. “Not leave? But why on earth would you stay? You’re not beholden to anything here. You are an infanta of Spain; I am Spain’s queen. You can come home with me.”

  “And do what? Live at court as your spinster sister? Take holy vows and enter a convent? Or perhaps wed the first noble who takes pity on me? I’ve been married once before and widowed. I am not a thirteen-year-old girl with a host of suitors outside my door, Juana. You know that as well as I. At my age, you had already borne your husband a child. Besides, I am beholden; I am betrothed to Prince Henry. Through no fault of mine, doubts have been cast on my honor. I must not concede defeat. You read Mamá’s letter. God has a plan for me. He wants me to be queen of England.”