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

by Gortner, C. W.

  I held the letter for a moment before I finally cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment.

  Madrecita,

  I have learned of all that has befallen you through the admiral, and your pain causes me great sorrow. Had I known that matters would reach such a pass, I would have come sooner to assist you. Yet as you must know, I had to leave Castile because my kingdom and very life had been threatened. I send you this missive by the faithful offices of my lord the admiral and ask you not to come to Valencia, as I plan to leave on the morrow. I suggest we meet in Tortoles, where I’m assured there has been no sickness from the plague. Until then, my daughter, I pray for your good health, and trust that we’ll soon be reunited in happiness. Given on this 29th day of August, 1507,

  I, Fernando de Aragón

  I lifted my eyes to the admiral. I felt a fragile joy I was almost too afraid to acknowledge. “He wants us to meet in Tortoles.”

  He smiled. “And Your Highness’s answer is?”

  “Yes. My answer is yes!” I threw my arms about his neck. “I will meet with my father and together we will claim my throne.”

  I LEFT HORNILLOS THE NEXT EVENING, HAVING SENT THE ADMIRAL ahead to Tortoles to find me the best accomodations available. Upon my arrival, I was taken to a two-story house on the edge of the town.

  Beatriz, Soraya, Doña Josefa, and I went to work, opening my battered coffers that contained my plate and linens, and airing my embroidered pillows from Flanders and wool tapestries. We spread rushes mixed with lavender and thyme on the floors and sat together at night repairing my gowns. I decided on one with an ebony satin bodice inset with onyx beads for my meeting with my father but had Soraya replace the draping sleeves with fitted, crimson damask ones. And my coif needed a new veil, with some pearls to adorn it. My father always liked to see me in finery.

  On the morning of his arrival, my ladies awoke me before dawn. They bathed me and dressed my hair. After they laced me into my gown, they set the coif on my head, adjusted the fall of veiling, and stepped back.

  I turned to them, plucking at my skirts. “Well?”

  “Your Highness looks beautiful,” said Beatriz, though she made the mistake of glancing away. I strode to my dressing table, picked up my silver hand mirror. In the cracked, tarnished glass, my face swam like a reflection in murky water—so pale and gaunt, I could not contain my gasp.

  “Dios mio,” I said. “I look as if I’ve been to hell itself.”

  “You have. There’s no use pretending otherwise.”

  She never minced her words; with a faint smile, I set the mirror back on the dresser. “Is Catalina dressed yet? Papá will want to see her.”

  “Doña Josefa attends to her.” Beatriz took me by the arm. “Come, let’s go to the courtyard. That way, we’ll be the first to see His Majesty when he approaches.”

  BY MIDMORNING the sun was vehement.

  We took shelter in the shade of the portico, where dust clung to our gowns and perspiration stuck our petticoats to our thighs. When we finally heard muffled shouts in the distance, I sent Soraya to the gates. She peered out. “I can see them!” she cried over her shoulder to me. “Many lords ride to the house.”

  I moistened my parched lips. Many lords. Probably everyone who had plotted against me. In my anticipation of this moment, I hadn’t paused to consider that my father might arrive with an escort. But then Cisneros must have hastened to greet him, Villena, Benavente, and the constable as well, all eager as ever to curry favor where favor could be found.

  I braced myself. No matter how much it cost me, I would not let them see how much I dreaded their presence. Let them find only cold indifference; let them wonder if once I was safe on my throne they would find much to answer for.

  All of a sudden, the entourage was before the gate, an impressive collection of men whose cloaks draped over their mounts’ hindquarters, the bright scarlet and gold and blue of their insignias glistening with unnatural brilliance against the bone-white sky. Villena and Benavente were among them; so was the constable. I had seen him skulking in the ranks of Philip’s army at Burgos, then in Burgos when Philip died. It seemed he had indeed been spying for my father.

  Then I saw my father. He rode at their head on a stallion caparisoned in green velvet. My knees turned to water. I flashed on an icy-cold day on a charred field outside Granada, what seemed an eternity ago, when I’d waited on tiptoes for him in all my innocence. Then, he had ridden with his head bare and with my brother like an angel at his side. Now, his features were shadowed by his black cap, the lone jewel pinned to its brim winking in the light. He turned to speak to a man behind him.

  Then he dismounted, his boots hitting the dust with an audible thump. The others followed suit. As each lord leapt from his horse, my heart beat faster and faster, until it seemed it would burst from my chest.

  He turned to us. My ladies sank into curtsies. I stood immobile, staring as though he were a mirage that might vanish at any moment. He straightened his shoulders and began walking across the courtyard.

  Slowly, with a composure that belied my trepidation, I moved to him.

  He stopped. He removed his cap. The sunlight glinted on his balding head, his pate tanned copper by the Neapolitan sun. He’d grown a beard, its chestnut sheen liberally sprinkled with gray; he looked shorter and stouter, yet his stance was the same, achingly familiar, his legs bowed and his gloved hands on hips, his leonine head tilted.

  I clutched my skirts above my ankles and broke into a run, my coif flying off unheeded.

  Brightness glistened in his eyes as I came before him. His face was deeply scored.

  “Madrecita,” he said. “Mi madrecita, al fin…” He pulled me to him. “I am home,” he said, as his arms closed about me. “I have come home to you.”

  Before I closed my eyes, I saw the admiral among the lords. He inclined his head gently.

  WE SAT IN THE SALA, the remains of our supper on the table. The lords had departed to their separate lodgings at my father’s request; after serving us, my ladies retired from sight.

  Strangely, through supper we spoke only of safe things. I asked him about my son, whom he had left in safekeeping in Aragón, and of his trip (“Naples is a hellhole,” he laughed, “but a rich hellhole, at that”). Our five years of separation were heavy between us, and we were both reluctant to break the illusion that we simply enjoyed a long-overdue reunion, until the time came when we could avoid it no longer.

  Rising from his chair, he took up his goblet of wine and paced to the doors leading to the patio. With the fall of night, clusters of flowering jasmine had released their fragrance, and it wafted through the open doors. He closed his eyes. “Jasmine. It always reminds me of Isabel.”

  I sat silent. Hearing my mother’s name on his lips made me hurt.

  He turned back to me, shaking his head. “Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you any discomfort. I spoke without thinking.”

  “I know, Papá.” I met his gaze. “You can speak of her, if you like.”

  “No,” he said, with a wry laugh. “Best to speak of you, yes?” He returned to the table, set down his goblet. “I do not wish to burden you further. I want you to feel safe and I understand that won’t happen overnight, not after everything you’ve suffered.”

  I gave him a smile. “I will not break, Papá. And I have questions only you can answer.”

  He regarded me with bemusement. “Questions?” He reached again for his goblet, drained its contents, and immediately refilled it from the decanter. He had consumed more than I recalled him drinking. Times past, he’d all but abstained save for formal occasions.

  “Very well.” He straightened his shoulders. “Ask your questions.”

  I took a breath. “Why did you leave Spain without trying to see me?” To my relief, I did not sound resentful. Not until this moment had I fully realized how bewildering his actions were to me, how much I had needed him during my struggle to survive my husband and win my throne.

  He frown
ed. “I thought you knew. Philip forced me. He threatened to invade Aragón. I do not have the power I held with your mother. Even as regent, I still needed the grandes’ support. And they sided completely with your husband.”

  “And Cisneros, did he act as your spy?”

  “Yes. He kept me informed of everything that transpired, up until that Cortes session where you defied Philip. Then, for some reason he has not explained, he ceased to write.”

  “There’s no surprise there. He tried to finish what Philip started. I think he wanted to rule Castile, perhaps through one of my sons.”

  “No doubt. The old vulture has certainly added a few new plumes to his roost since I saw him last, though he did come to me as soon as I arrived to explain he only sought to protect the realm. In fact, most of the nobles have begged my forgiveness.”

  I bristled. “It’s my forgiveness they should seek.”

  He nodded, giving me a pensive look. “They assume I will seek to reclaim my regency. I’ve not said anything. Castile has a queen to rule it now. I have no aspirations for myself.”

  I absorbed these words in silence. I did not want to probe further, but knew I would never rest unless I heard the answers from him, and him alone. “I have one more thing to ask, Papá.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you…?” My voice caught. “Did you have Besançon…?”

  I had no idea why I asked this. I must have sought to expunge my own heart, to scare away my fears with the thought that I was my father’s daughter and had only done what was necessary. I knew that had I not acted as I did, Philip would have destroyed Spain. But there were still nights when I woke gasping, seeing again my hands as they coldly crumbled the herbs into powder and sprinkled it into the wine, watching it float like smoke for a moment before it blended with the red liquid. How else could I have known that those herbs grabbed in a moment of terror would do my bidding? How had I known that with a mere two goblets, I would be freed of Philip’s tyranny forever? How else had I found the strength to kill my husband?

  He stepped close to me. “Do you truly think me capable of such a deed?”

  “He said he was poisoned,” I replied. “I heard him tell Philip. Philip believed him.”

  My father’s eyes turned hard. “Then your husband was almost as much a fool as that old archbishop. I don’t much care either way what they believed. But in answer to your question, no, I did not poison him. Though Christ only knows if anyone deserved it, that man did.”

  I fought back a rush of conflicting emotions. How could I have doubted him? Had I lost so much of myself that I had ceased to trust my own father? And yet his answer unsettled me. I could never tell him the truth now. I could never confess what I had done.

  It was a deed I must carry forever, to atone for on the day of my own death.

  “Forgive me,” I murmured, averting my eyes. “I…I had to ask.”

  He leaned to me, cupped my chin. “Besançon died by God’s hands, not mine, just like your husband—which is a form of justice in and of itself, eh?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I suppose it is.”

  “Good. I could not bear it if you thought ill of me.” He turned away. I thought he might pour himself more wine. Instead, with his back to me he said without warning, “I too have a question now. Do you wish to rule as queen?”

  I hesitated, quelling the immediate urge to say yes, to take on my own burdens and steer the path of my destiny from this day forth. I had experienced too much to succumb to another potentially devastating mistake made in heated pride, particularly one that could cost me everything I’d fought to obtain. The truth was, not even my mother had ascended the throne alone. She had already wed my father, who helped her win Castile from her foes, and they had initiated their reign together. Spain had never had a widowed sovereign queen before.

  “I do wish to rule,” I finally said. “But I know many would prefer one of my sons on the throne. You ruled Castile with Mamá for years. What do you advise?”

  A pensive silence followed my words. Then he laughed shortly. “I can’t pretend to advise anyone. I’ve made too many mistakes. Besides, you’ve been forced into too many decisions that were not your own. You should decide now what is best for you.”

  “Very well, then. Then what about the codicil?”

  His brow furrowed. “Codicil?”

  “Yes. The one Mamá left. It stated you would rule Castile as regent until I was invested as queen. Its terms are still valid, are they not?”

  He rubbed his bearded chin. “I don’t know. She originally devised it because she feared your husband would seize everything for himself. Now that he’s dead, I’m not sure if it applies.”

  “What if we altered it, then? Aragón and Castile should stay united. I could give you a premier place on my council, Papá. You needn’t leave again. We could rule as father and daughter, rid Castile of the last of the Flemish, and see the Cortes summoned for my coronation.”

  His smile was odd, a mere curve of his lips. “Are you saying you never intend to wed again?”

  “Never,” I replied. “I have my children and my kingdom. I don’t need anything else.”

  “You say that now, because you are tired. But you are young. The flesh has its needs.”

  “I am done with all that. There isn’t a man alive I could wish for as a husband.”

  But as I spoke, I thought of the admiral, of his compassion and his strength, of his unswerving loyalty. It was unthinkable, of course. The grandes would never allow one of their own to rule over them. Yet I couldn’t deny the emotions that had taken seed in me, born of the despair and torment of these last years with Philip. If I had the choice, the admiral was the man I would want. He, I would make king.

  My father said, “You are aware there could be trouble? Any assumption of power on my part might make matters worse.”

  “How can they get any worse?” I stood, rounded the table. “For the past six years, I’ve been a prisoner.” My voice broke. “I don’t trust the nobles, Papá. I don’t trust Cisneros. Each plotted against me in one way or another. Only the admiral has been steadfast; only he showed me any care. With you and him beside me, we can bring the grandes to task. You know them. You earned their fear during your time as king with Mamá. You can help me do it now.”

  “I appreciate your trust in me, madrecita,” he said in a low voice, “but you give me too much credit. I am older now. I am not the angry young king I was when I married Isabel.”

  I searched his eyes. “Are you saying you can’t do it, or you won’t?”

  He sighed—a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “For you, I will do it. For you, I’ll deal with the flamencos and the noble lords of Castile who hate me as they hate little else. But I’ll need your consent if they make a move against me. The last thing I want is Villena or another of those wolves coming at me with an army at his back. I cannot summon men to arms in Castile. The Cortes took that power away from me when they sided with your husband, though by your mother’s codicil I was granted it in perpetuity.”

  “I shall restore it to you,” I said firmly. “It will be my first act as queen.” I felt hope. I could do this. I could be the queen my mother had wanted me to be. Castile would be mine.

  He met my gaze. “Are you certain this is what you want? You have time to think it over.”

  “I’ve never been more certain. It’s not what I want, Papá, but what Spain needs. Mamá made you regent until I could claim my throne. She trusted you. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Very well, then. Together, we’ll set Castile to rights.” He kissed my lips. “And we’ll start by finding you a suitable place to live, where you can recover your strength and I can ride to you at a moment’s notice.” He hugged me close, as he had so many times when I’d been a child. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am,” I heard him say. “I dreaded the thought of leaving you again.”

  I closed my eyes, abruptly overcome by fatigue, all the tension an
d fear and doubt seeping from me. I needed to rest, to come to terms with these welcome, but abrupt, changes in my life.

  “I am tired, Papá. Will you stay here tonight? I’ve readied a room for you.”

  He smiled. “I wish I could. But Cisneros is no doubt pacing his room in town at this very moment, wondering what we’re talking about. I want to surprise him with the good news.” He tweaked my cheek. “I’ll come first thing tomorrow. I’ve yet to see my new granddaughter.”

  I laughed. “She’s still a baby, but she looks just like Catalina.”

  “Then you named her well.” He went still, looking at me as though he sought to engrave my face in his memory. “Rest well, madrecita,” he said, and then he turned and strode out.

  As I climbed the stairs to my chamber, I could barely keep my eyes open. I checked on Catalina, whom I found sprawled in her crib, Doña Josefa slumbering in a chair beside her.

  My ladies waited for me. They helped me undress without speaking, sensing my need for quiet. Snuggling naked between crisp linens, in a few seconds I succumbed to sleep.

  I did not wake once. And I did not dream.

  THIRTY-TWO

  My father came to me the next day. He declared himself delighted with little Catalina, who gurgled and sucked on his thumb. After she was taken away for her nap, he and I ate on the patio and strolled in the walled garden, enjoying the benevolent summer dusk.

  He spoke of the many obstacles he would face in the coming months, not the least of which was persuading the nobles to join him in routing Don Manuel. I learned to my outrage that the treacherous ambassador had snuck back into Burgos and seized the castle there, installing himself like a feudal warlord with his mercenaries. Papa said the constable was already on his way there to raise his men, and he was confident others would join, for if there was one thing in which the nobles were united it was their hatred of Don Manuel.