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

by Gortner, C. W.

  “I’ve been listening to the grandes as I come and go from the kitchens,” she added. “They don’t even see me. But, I see them. I listen. Many say they do not know what to do now. I overheard that fat count say His Majesty waits in Segovia, in the Alcázar with the treasury. Segovia isn’t far, a week’s ride at most. I can make it there.”

  “Remember Lopez,” I told her quietly. “They tortured him, and he was a member of my mother’s household. If they catch you, I dare not imagine what they will do.”

  “I survived the fall of Granada,” she replied, as if that said it all.

  Beatriz nodded. “Much as I hate to admit, it’s not a bad plan.” She directed her next words at Soraya. “You mustn’t falter. You must leave first thing tomorrow, before everyone is awake. After you deliver the letter, don’t rush back to tell us the good news. If you do, God only knows where we’ll all end up. Do you understand? Stay away until you know it is safe.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I promise.”

  I reached out and embraced her. She had been my constant companion since childhood, and we both knew we might never see each other again.

  BEFORE DAWN, SHE LEFT with my letter hidden under her skirts.

  The hours passed like eternity. When night finally fell, Beatriz and I hugged each other close. “She did it,” I breathed. “She is on her way. May God watch over her.”

  “May God watch over us all,” said Beatriz.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Three suspense-laden days passed. On the fourth, clamoring voices and the discordant clanging of steel roused us. German mercenaries in their full mail, large as barbicans and holding pikes, came into my room to announce our immediate departure. Beatriz and I scarcely had an hour to throw my belongings into the coffers and pack our valises before we were being escorted into the courtyard, where the thunder of Philip’s army gathered.

  No one said anything. Surrounded by guards, we were led amid that cacophony of men into Castile and the Count of Benavente’s native city. Upon our arrival, Philip lodged me in a suite of chambers in the casa real, with sentries posted day and night at my door.

  Trapped in these luxurious apartments, I knew something terrible had occurred. Beatriz reported there was much murmuring among the nobles, but she could not discover anything concrete. I feared for my brave Soraya, of whom we hadn’t heard anything at all.

  On June 28, my worst fears were confirmed.

  Philip arrived in my rooms accompanied by Don Manuel, the Marquis of Villena, and Count Benavente. In his mellifluous voice, which wrapped about the words of the document in his hand as if they were the lyrics of a chanson, Don Manuel recited aloud:

  “It is hereby announced that Her Grace Queen Juana, our much-beloved consort, does not wish to take part in any governmental or administrative affairs or be informed of them. Should she wish to participate, it would lead to the upheaval of our kingdom, owing to her malady. To avert said evil, we advise our father-in-law King Fernando to renounce his regency and leave Castile at once, for should he or anyone in his support interfere further in the assumption of our throne, we will condemn such as a treasonable offense, punishable by imprisonment or death.

  “Signed on this twenty-seventh day of June 1506, by His Highness Philip, archduke of Flanders and king of Castile.”

  Don Manuel rolled up the scroll and extended it to me. “A copy for Your Grace’s records. You will see the majority of the grandes have added their signatures.”

  I clutched my shawl about my shoulders, my other hand at my belly. I was alone. Beatriz had gone to fetch my afternoon meal. “Do you have my or my father’s signature?” I asked. “Because if you do not, bring it before the Cortes and it will mean nothing.”

  “Your father knows not to defy me,” Philip snapped. “He has no one to help him anymore save for his nobles in Aragón and they’ll not risk themselves for his sake. And my army is big enough to crush him and his measly kingdom to a pulp, if I so choose. You best pray he leaves Segovia for Aragón forthwith before I take him to task. In the meantime, tomorrow we will hold a bullfight to celebrate. You are excused from attendance—though I expect you to honor my elevation to the throne at a special gathering of the Cortes next month in Valladolid.”

  He stalked out, Don Manuel scuttling behind. Villena and Benavente stayed. The count averted his eyes as I met their gaze; for once in his life, Villena had the wherewithal not to smile.

  I raised my chin. To my surprise, my voice scarcely trembled. “I’d be careful if I were you, my lords. As you have just seen, my husband holds nothing sacrosanct. I wonder what he’ll do when the time comes to reward you?”

  “We’ll take your words under advisement,” Villena replied, and with a low bow he left. Benavente looked at me; I saw fear in his gaze. He was a man of simple appetites, who preferred an uncomplicated life and had always left his decisions to his ally, the marquis.

  “Your Highness,” he mumbled, “I…I do not wish to see you come to harm.”

  Before I could reply, Beatriz rushed in with a covered platter in hand. She took one look at Benavente and barked, “Traitor! Have you no shame? She is your queen and with child! You will pay for all you do to her, so help me God!”

  “I did not want to do this!” he burst out. He turned beseeching eyes to me. “Your Highness, I swear to you, were it up to me I would never see you so defamed.”

  I whispered. “Tell Villena your concerns. The marquis has much to lose should my husband fail. And so, it seems, do you.”

  He bowed hastily and left. As the door closed on him, I reached blindly for the bedpost.

  Beatriz set the platter down and came to my side. “What did those villains say to you? Come, you must get into bed this instant. You are pale as death.”

  “There’s no time for that.” I forced myself upright. “I’ve run out of options. Philip will call the Cortes to session next month. But my father is still in Segovia. I need you more than I ever have before. I must escape.”

  BY DUSK, WE WORKED out a plan. Beatriz sat on the bed, absorbing my instructions.

  “They must believe you. They must think the shock of this news has put my health and that of my unborn babe at risk. Tell them unless I’m allowed some exercise, I will surely sicken. Tell them a ride in the park will do me good. Cry, beg; throw yourself at their feet. Do whatever you must to convince them. Ask them where can I possibly go, a woman with child? Appeal to Villena and Benavente; if there’s any honor left in their miserable souls, they’ll persuade Don Manuel. They don’t want my death on their hands.”

  She nodded tremulously. “Princesa, I’ll do what I can. But why won’t you let me come with you? It would be safer if we went together.”

  “I already told you why. They could refuse us. You must use the occasion to pretend to clean my rooms. Our leaving together will rouse suspicion. We have this one chance. We cannot fail.” I leaned to her, placed my hands on her shoulders, and stared into her dark eyes—eyes I could remember winking at me so long ago, on the day of my betrothal by proxy. She had been with me from the beginning. I feared our separation almost as much as she did.

  I forced out a laugh. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll probably get there before you! Remember, as soon as you hear the alarm that I am gone, you too must make haste. And don’t let them catch you whatever you do. I need you with me in Segovia.”

  I COULDN’T BELIEVE SUCH A SIMPLE PLAN HAD WORKED. YET HERE I was, astride a chestnut mare, riding out into the park with Benavente and Villena at my side.

  I lifted my face to the sun’s heat, reveling in the oppressive air around us. The park’s tender spring lawns were charred, the gnarled oaks and olive trees interspersed amid flowering dog roses, the only plants to thrive in summer. Their brilliant reds and mauves mesmerized me. They looked painted on a brittle canvas, too bright to be real.

  From behind us I discerned the distant cries of “Olé!” coming from the bullring, where matadors dueled with the fifty bulls Philip had ordered kille
d. As I hoped, the entire city flocked to the spectacle, and during the ride into the park the only souls we’d seen were the sullen sentries manning the gates. They barely glanced at us, too put out to be missing the festivities and free wine to pay us any mind.

  Benavente cleared his throat. “Your Highness, may I have your leave?”

  I gave him a nod. “By all means, my lord.”

  “We want you to know that we…” He glanced uneasily at Villena. “I mean, the marquis and I, we do not condone His Highness’s actions necessarily. But he ordered we accompany him to witness his declaration and we’re hardly in a position to refuse.”

  “Yes, my husband can be a persuasive man,” I said. “No one knows that better than I.”

  “That he is,” interjected Villena tersely. “He threatened to imprison us if we didn’t comply. But there is still the Cortes to contend with. His Highness requires its support to make himself king here and anyone can see Your Highness is with child. Women in your state are naturally prone to melancholia. It does not mean you are unfit to rule, now, does it?”

  “Indeed.” I scanned the area ahead. Beatriz had told me that when she went to plead my case, Villena had mentioned that an old Roman wall enclosed this park and therefore a ride would be safe enough. Impatient to get to the bullring and flaunt his success, Don Manuel agreed. As we passed through the city gates, I had noticed with trepidation that the wall did indeed look stout, but now I began to see that here, near the confluence of the Elsa River, it had been neglected, and in one or two places, almost dilapidated. Could I jump it? Or would I end up shattering my mare’s legs and my own neck in the process?

  Benavente was running on at the mouth, eager to purge himself now that he had found me willing to listen. “Of course if the Cortes deems it lawful that the archduke rule as sole sovereign, we must oblige. But we don’t bear Your Highness any ill will. We never did.”

  “Naturally,” I said. Did they think me a fool? They’d see me locked away if they thought they could get away with it. But my words to them the day before had clearly taken root: he and Villena had begun to wonder whether it was wise to entrust their future to Philip and Don Manuel.

  I tightened my grip on my reins as we rounded a bend in the road. I dared not look about me, lest I betray my purpose. “My lords,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as high pitched to them as it did to me, “might we quicken our pace a little?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, of course.” Benavente beamed, only too happy to oblige and thus earn himself the ability to say he had done all he could to assist me in my time of need.

  “Thank you, my lord.” I filled my lungs with air, wound the reins about my fingers, and invoked my strength. Then I rammed my boot heels as hard as I could into the mare’s sides. Startled from her insouciant trot, she leapt forward.

  I did not look back. I did not even breathe as I kicked again, harder this time, and leaned close to her arched neck, my belly pressing against the saddle horn. “Run, bonita,” I breathed into her flattened ear. “Run as fast you can. Run for your queen.”

  Villena’s shout reached me as if from across a vast divide: “Your Highness! Your Highness, stop this instant!”

  I knew one must go after me while the other raced back to the city to raise the alarm. I prayed Benavente would be the one to follow, as he was the eldest and least fit. He also rode a mare like my own, while Villena’s was an Arabian gelding, bred for speed. I didn’t know how fast my mare could run. Fortunately, I weighed less than during my previous pregnancies, and as if she sensed my anxiety the valiant creature increased her stride, seeming to fly toward a section of bulwark looming ahead.

  A gasp tore from my throat. It was impossibly high.

  I am going to die, I thought. I am going to break against that wall. But at least I die free.

  Closing my eyes, I buried my face into the mare’s mane. I felt myself lift upward, up and up, soaring. I tensed, braced for the bone-shattering crunch, the lethal projection onto rocky ground.

  The mare landed, graceful as a dancer. My teeth cut into my lip. I looked up, saw that we had cleared the wall and now galloped over the open salt lands. Tears streamed down my face.

  I had done it! I had escaped!

  I braved a glance over my shoulder. My exultation died. Villena was fast behind me, having jumped the wall as well. He gesticulated furiously, his cap blown from his head, his hair billowing about his enraged features.

  I jammed my heels into my mare again. The poor creature was running as fast as she could, panting now with exertion. With a stallion like Villena’s, I could have flown to Segovia, but I’d been given an older horse, bred for ladies and docile rides around the park.

  I had to get off the salt flats. With any luck, I could lose Villena. I spied a dense pine forest on a ridge. Pulling the mare to the left, I raced toward it.

  Villena began to drop behind me, not yet out of sight, but growing more distant. I had released my grip on the reins. Feeling the bit slacken in her mouth, the mare picked up speed. The forest neared, individual pines becoming visible. There was enough foliage and undergrowth to hide in. I would stay in the forest until nightfall and start out again under the cover of darkness.

  The mare plunged up the ridge, loose rocks and gravel scattering under her hooves. When we reached the top, at the edge of the forest, to my horror she came to a halt, her flanks lathered, heaving. Saliva drooled from her mouth. I’d ridden her into exhaustion.

  I anxiously searched the barren flat below me. I had deviated from my original course toward the river, but my swerve must have dissuaded Villena, for he was gone. Either he’d ceased his pursuit in favor of going back for reinforcements or he sought a way to intercept me as I emerged from the forest. By now, word would be out; it would only be a matter of time before they guessed my destination. Fortunately, I had decided on a circuitous route.

  I slid to the ground and led the mare into the thicket of trees, pushing down a surge of doubt. This was my land: I had been born and raised here. I would find the way.

  I only knew the sun had started to fall when after having picked my way through a labyrinth of deer paths for what seemed like hours, I stumbled upon a clearing.

  Below the scarlet streaked sky was an old hut, fenced by an enclosure with a few skinny goats. A stooped woman in a ragged dress hung bunches of herbs on her threshold to dry; at the sight of me, she froze. Her ageless face was carved by life, her skin brown and creased, like the leather cover of a book. My entire body throbbed. As the woman set aside her herbs and moved toward me, I had to grope at the mare’s reins to keep myself from sinking to the ground. God help me, I could go no further.

  “Doña? Doña, está bien?” The woman was thin to the point of emaciation, her eyes a watery black. She dropped her gaze to my stomach. “Está embarazada,” she said. “You are pregnant. Come. I’ll give you a cup of goat’s milk, sí?”

  “You don’t understand,” I whispered. “I must reach the road that leads to the river.”

  Her puzzled gaze lightened. “The road. Yes, I know where it is. But it’s too far. It’ll be dark soon. I’ll show you tomorrow. Come now. You are tired. You must rest.”

  She was a poor gypsy who lived in the forest, isolated from the world, deemed as heathen as the Moor. Yet she offered all she had to a passing stranger large with child, a fellow woman and outcast: shelter and a cup of milk.

  With a grateful nod, I allowed her to lead me into the hut.

  THE NEXT MORNING I AWOKE TO BIRDSONG, AN ACHING BACK AND buttocks, and the unfamiliar sense of peace. I reveled in it as I lay in my rumpled clothing on a pile of straw in the crude hut. I had not felt free in so long I had forgotten what it was like. Rising from the mat, running a hand through my tangled hair, I saw the woman was gone. On the table were strewn her dried herb cuttings, which she’d painstakingly shown and named for me. Mandrake, chamomile, belladonna, and rosemary, and a strange dried red berry she called el sueño del moro, the Moor’s Sleep—the
lethal and benign gathered together by an herbalist’s expert hand.

  “A few pinches of the Sleep in a cup of wine will vanquish all your enemies,” she had said, and her dark hooded eyes glittered in the tallow light, as though she knew why I fled.

  Beside the herbs, I saw she had left another cup of milk, still cool from the clay jars she set in the hut’s earth floor. There was also country bread slathered with honey and some stringy ham. I devoured the fare. My mare had spent the night in the enclosure with the goats. I found her there alone. The woman must have taken her goats to graze while I slept. I must soon be on my way, but I took a moment to enjoy the sunbeams coming through the treetops, festooning the clearing in patterned gold. It seemed to me at that moment so uncomplicated an existence that I felt a pang of envy for this anonymous life.

  Then the world tore apart. One moment, the birds were chattering and my face was raised to the sky; the next I heard a wail of terror cut short with lethal suddenness, and men on horses came pounding into the clearing—a troop of my husband’s mercenaries, herding the frantic cluster of goats. One of the men tossed a lump at my feet as I backed away. I looked down at the bloodied mess of the gypsy woman’s head and let out a horrified scream.

  “There you are! God in heaven, must you ruin everything?”

  Philip came cantering toward me. I spun about to race back into the hut, hearing the men dismount, laughing, and the whicker of my mare, unnerved by the smell of fresh blood. I was panting, cursing aloud, searching for a knife, an ax, anything to defend myself with, caught up in a maelstrom of terror and disbelief when I felt his gauntlet on my arm.

  I yanked away. “Murderer! Monster! Don’t touch me!”