Beatriz de Bobadilla and Madame de Hallewin doze beside me. We have traveled all day and the light on the road is beginning to fade. I pull a blanket over my shoulders. Soon we will reach Valenciennes, and there will be celebrations and royal welcomes in our honor. I have never been to the south of the country and look forward to resting and basking in the love of my subjects. There are still several days before we reach France.
“IMAGINE, LUCíA, WHAT THOSE TWO MONTHS PHILIPPE AND JUANA spent traveling from Valenciennes to Bayonne must have been like. The French monarchs had planned lavish displays of hospitality and all sorts of honors all along the way. Wherever they went, they were treated like kings. In each city, they were welcomed by the premier nobles. Church bells rang incessantly. Streets were decked out and crowds cheered, anxious to catch a glimpse of the royal couple so famed for their beauty, for the elegance of their retinue. Philippe was granted the honor of pardoning condemned men and presiding over the courts of justice. At night there were banquets and balls, and during the day they held tournaments and jousts. Juana impressed her hosts with her distinguished deportment and especially with her fluent Latin, which she used in speeches to thank and to greet people. But following the bishop’s advice, she discretely withdrew from the festivities in honor of the king of France.
“Philippe must have loved all that flattery.”
“He was almost entirely unaware of how delicate the situation was for Juana. And she forgave him, because his happiness put him in the mood for love.”
IN PARIS BOTH THE CITY AND THE WOMEN WENT TO PHILIPPE’S head.
I watched him laugh, his head buried in courtesans’ ringlets. And it was only Beatriz, tugging on my skirts, who managed to stop me from reprimanding him and insisting that he behave decorously, at the very least while in my presence.
The praises that were sung about that city! I had dreamed of seeing the river, the bridges, Notre Dame, but Paris was cold, and it drizzled for days on end. No matter the candelabras that shone in sumptuous palaces, no matter the brightly colored frescoes and the gold; I just wanted to leave as soon as possible. Philippe would be out all day hunting, and then return filthy and stinking of wine and horses. He climbed onto me with such gusto and resolve that I could guess the fantasies of other women that he was entertaining. I convinced him to let me go on to Blois before him. I would take the entourage, and then he could catch up, riding post-horses. I left him in Paris, fearing that if I were forced to witness any more of his conceit, the claws and teeth I so wanted to bare would become uncontainable and my desire to scratch and bite would win. I don’t know where my wrath and frenzy come from, but when I see him enthralled by another’s cheek my emotions run wild. He cannot even see the deceitfulness of those women who admire him and falls into their traps without realizing how puerile and ludicrous he looks to others. But of course, all those around him give in to his every whim, humoring him and chortling away at every little thing he does. And if I am upset, then I am the witch, the evil one who comes along and spoils his fun, keeps him from making the most of his youth and beauty. “Pretend you don’t notice,” is Beatriz’s advice. “Men end up hating women who go into raptures over them,” declares Bishop Fonseca. I think my idea of leaving Paris, of not letting my eyes see and thus my heart feel, was a wise one, despite the emptiness and anguish that I feel in my heart.
We awaited Philippe at the gates of Blois. He appeared that morning, riding majestically atop a shimmering, black charger. He knelt before me in an exaggerated show of respect, wearing a large, black felt hat adorned with a copper-colored feather. He was cheerful when he embraced me, in a good mood. As soon as he arrived, the procession grew lively; we were happy and joyful as we entered Blois Castle beneath clear, auspicious skies. In the throne room, a large crowd of splendidly clad nobles awaited us. When the chamberlain announced Philippe, proclaiming, “Voilà, sire, Monsieur le Archiduc,” King Louis, dressed in a white jacket embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis, responded, “Voilà, un beau prince.” My husband bowed three times before the king, but I entered after him and curtsied only once. The king stepped forward then, offering me his arm, and kissed my head tenderly. A little while later, implying that I must be bored of their men’s talk, he sent me off to the queen’s chambers with the other women.
My ladies and I withdrew. Queen Anne offered us tea and fruit juice in an exquisite salon with enormous windows overlooking a perfectly manicured garden with trimmed hedges and topiary trees. The queen was an affected woman, with a long face and big, gray eyes. Like her ladies, she looked me up and down quite openly. I decided to return the gesture. It was immediately apparent that we were not destined to be the best of friends.
The following day during mass, when it was time for the offerings, she sent one of her ladies over with a silver tray of coins for me to tithe on her behalf. Doing so would mean pledging vassalage to her royal authority. I declined the offer. I did not care that Philippe had stooped to accept the coins the king had sent to him. For my part, I said that I would make my own offering. When mass was over, the queen did not invite me to join her entourage as she left church. I stayed where I was, pretending to kneel in prayer, and left when I was ready. That night at dinner I elected not to wear my Burgundian attire and instead chose a Spanish-style dress, ordering my ladies to do the same.
While I was busy drawing boundaries with the king and queen, Philippe accepted a falcon and falconry lessons from His Highness Louis XII. He went riding and hunting with the king daily. He was in love with the man’s customs and courtesy, and Louis XII very cleverly bestowed upon Philippe the title “Prince of Peace.”
“King Louis is of the opinion that even if your mother dies, your father will not cede power or agree to retire to Aragon. Any other king consort would, but not Ferdinand of Aragon,” he told me one night, inspired by wine and the comfort of our feather bed. “We will need allies to claim the throne, Juana. And who better than the king of France?”
“You will need allies,” I said. “I have no plans to confront my father. His love is worth more to me than any kingdom.”
At the time I could not have dreamed how prophetic his words would turn out to be, or how much I would suffer for my loyalty.
My refusal to show respect to the king and queen of France led to such tension that Philippe decided to avoid the whole matter by drawing short our visit and continuing our journey to Spain. He had managed to consolidate his ties and his friendship with King Louis and was afraid I would jeopardize his hard work if we stayed any longer.
LEAVING BLOIS EARLY MEANT THAT WE HAD TO CROSS THE PYRENEES and the Cantabrian sierra in the dead of winter. Amid snow and ice, on January 26, 1502, we reached Fuenterrabía. The commander of Leon, Don Gutierre de Cárdenas, and the Count of Miranda, Don Francisco de Zúñiga, received us there with great splendor. They provided us with accommodations for several days in a palace overlooking the sea and gave us a pack of strong Vizcaya mules to cart our goods for the remainder of the journey. Our train was too heavy and encumbered to cross the mountains, so we had to send our carriages back to Flanders and continue on horseback and mule. We were utterly exposed to the cold and snowstorms as we crossed the narrow Saint Adrian mountain pass. It was five hours of sheer torture as we advanced at a snail’s pace, with both the animals and the attendants on foot slipping and falling at every turn. I buried myself in a bearskin, shivering under the hood as I licked my cracked lips, trying not to think about the Flemish in the retinue who would surely be cursing this utterly inhospitable welcome to Spain.
Fortunately we were able to rest in Segura, although not before the nobles, settlers, and inhabitants paid us homage, many of them having come from miles around for the celebrations and royal audience that left Philippe and me exhausted.
A FEW DAYS LATER IN THE EBRO VALLEY, ON OUR WAY TO CASTILE, high spirits returned. For me, returning to Spain, hearing the sweet sounds of my mother tongue, seeing the striking features of my people, the familiar colors, was like
coming out of hibernation. My blood coursed and my heart raced. Commander Gutierre de Cárdenas told me that in preparation for our arrival several months ago, my parents had given permission for the black mourning outfits made compulsory after my siblings’ deaths to be replaced by fine materials and bright colors. So everywhere we went, dignitaries dressed in new, magnificent attire came out to receive us. Philippe was obviously pleased and surprised by the nobility’s wealth and prosperity and by the number of striking, fortified castles we came across on our way. At the gates of Burgos, a group of soldiers mistook us for an invading army and closed the city gates upon our arrival. We found it very amusing, because no sooner had the misunderstanding been cleared up than the city launched into the sumptuous reception they had planned for us. Eighteen horsemen clad all in red raised a golden canopy over our heads. As a symbol of his sovereignty, Philippe’s principal squire raised the official sword pertaining to the heir to Castile that my parents had sent. The crowd cheered and applauded madly. Later, Don Íñigo de Velasco, constable of Castile, entertained us with bullfights and an exquisite banquet.
We were treated to the same lavish receptions in Valladolid, Medina del Campo, Segovia, and Madrid. While it’s true that in Valladolid Philippe became furious when one of his trunks went missing–it had been filled with valuable gold pieces–I was too happy to be back in my country to get upset. I was touched to be reunited with Don Fadrique Enríquez, admiral of Castile, who had accompanied me to Flanders on my sea voyage when I first left Spain to be married; he was still a noble spirit and wished me every happiness.
We reached Madrid on March 25, Good Friday, and rested there until April 28. On several nights, Philippe and I escaped the palace dressed as commoners and mingled with the men and women at the town fair; no one recognized us. Philippe also came along with me to sponsor the baptisms of Moors and Jews. My confessor, Diego Ramírez de Villaescusa, felt that witnessing the beautiful, solemn liturgy would diminish the prince’s unease at our practice of converting infidels. After long days of tiring activity, rather than collapse in exhaustion, Philippe would return at night with his energy redoubled. Mollified by good Spanish wine and appeased by the admiration and hospitality all around him, he celebrated our love with great displays of creativity and passion in which I was decidedly both complicit as well as enthusiastic. He made love to me squeezing grapes over my skin, or stroking me with feathers. Our disagreements could not encumber the smooth syntax of our bodies which, like exquisitely calibrated mechanisms, engaged each other in a perfect harmony we could neither understand nor resist. We both felt an overpowering urge to become one, to melt together. I had only to stroke his arm or his neck, he had only to do the same, for our hatred to temporarily stop in its tracks, like an image trapped in the reflection of distant lights. The more heated our arguments, the more passionately we clung to each other when we made up. “This is mad, Juana; it’s mad,” Philippe would whisper. Sometimes I would think about Beatriz and the phial she gave me before I set sail for Flanders. I wondered if Philippe had drunk from it too, if I had somehow slipped him the love potion and simply could not recall.
I was extremely thankful to my parents for those days of happiness in Madrid. I especially appreciated their staying quietly in Andalusia and allowing Philippe and I to enjoy the honors and celebrations that nobility and settlers held in our honor. Otherwise, I knew, Philippe’s mood would have been tarnished by his fear of my parents, formidable sovereigns who had the respect and admiration of the entire world. By traveling through Spain we had borne witness to the grandeur, to the order of the kingdom. The commoners sung praises about their rulers and constantly compared the present to the anarchy, abuses, and skirmishes that had continuously beset the country before the Catholic Monarchs came to power. On the other hand, a good part of the nobility resented the control and vassalage they had imposed and took every opportunity to warn Philippe of my parents’ ambition, offering him their support if he would defend their interests. Philippe told me about these conversations–with men whose names he refused to reveal–as a means of justifying his fears and his advisors’ suspicions about the cunning and manipulation of my forbearers and their supposed plotting.
FINALLY WE EMBARKED ON THE JOURNEY TO TOLEDO, THE CITY where I was born and where the Cortes would grant us the royal mandate and officially recognize us as heirs to the throne. As bad fortune would have it, Philippe fell ill with measles in Olías along the way. My father made the journey up to inquire about his health.
I was certainly not expecting any such show of affection. I recall how pleased and surprised I was when I got up from my feverish husband’s bedside to look out the window after hearing the commotion on the patio of the villa where we were staying, only to see my father dismounting from his horse. I raced down to meet him, and he gave me such a hug it nearly took my breath away. I pulled back to look at his cherished face, his round features now tanned and hardened by the sun and the years gone by. His dark eyes bore into me and then looked again, simultaneously recognizing me and not. Dressed all in black, his clothes smelling of dust and wool, his prickly beard now speckled with gray, my father hugged me over and over again. I remember the hilt of his sword digging into my ribs. As he gave me news of my mother and kept repeating how much I had grown over these years, he asked me to take him to my husband’s bedside right away, as he was extremely worried for his health. I realized that beneath his hidden concern lay the ghosts of my siblings, whose sudden deaths were the reason Philippe and I had journeyed to Toledo to begin with.
My father said that the news of his son-in-law’s poor health had come just as the procession of bishops and dignitaries that were to accompany my parents to the city gates had been about to leave. When they canceled the ceremony, fears spread.
“I wanted to come myself,” he said, “to make certain you are well provided for.”
We went upstairs to the bedroom. My father removed his felt hat as he entered. The court physician had just confirmed his diagnosis. Philippe’s face was flushed with fever and illness. On seeing the king, he attempted to get up, but my father refused to allow it and motioned for him not to even rise to kiss his hand.
“Please forget all formalities and reverences, son.”
I translated his words into French. My father was very friendly and good-natured, and he praised Philippe for the good impression he had made on those he’d met in Spain thus far. His only concern should be his own convalescence, he said. It made no difference if the ceremony before the Cortes were postponed a few days. His wife, the queen, was planning to come visit him the following day, he added, despite being unwell herself.
Philippe made a supreme effort and in a display of true gallantry insisted that the queen not wear herself out, especially at risk of catching his fever. If he found that she were preparing a visit to Olías, he would certainly go out to receive her at the gates of the city, regardless of his state of health.
His determination pleased my father. I smiled in silence at the contrast I observed between these two men in my life. Compared to the king of France, to my father-in-law, or even to Flemish nobles, my father lacked sophistication. His plain black clothes were not to be compared to the elaborate Burgundian outfits. And yet his simple attire underscored his gallantry, the natural way he communicated his authority. Philippe, on the other hand–fine-looking and sophisticated–more resembled a timid mouse forced to converse with the cat he knew full well could behead him with a swift movement of his claws. He was tensely gripping the sheets he held up to his chest, the tendons in his neck muscles revealing the effort he was making to keep his head high on the pillow. My father, meanwhile, sat beside him on a chair, legs splayed, body leaning forward. He explained briefly what would happen during the ceremony in Toledo, and after half an hour he rose and said that he would leave so that my husband could rest and recover.
After years of feeling alone and vulnerable in Flanders, the presence of my lord the king made me feel more aware of
my royal stature than any of my confessors’ or advisors’ speeches had ever done. After bidding him farewell in the patio and watching him ride off with his party of attendants, I returned to Philippe’s side. The visit had revived him. He recovered a few weeks later.
ON MAY 7, WE MADE OUR TRIUMPHAL ENTRY INTO TOLEDO. DIGNITARIES and grandees lined the streets for what seemed miles, and they joined our entourage as we made our way toward the city gates. There were judicial envoys, aristocrats, clergy, French ambassadors, Venetians, Cardinal Mendoza, six thousand nobles from the kingdom, and, finally, my father, riding a beautiful chestnut-colored stallion. Philippe and I, on our mounts, rode beside him. The three of us were the crowning glory of the enormous procession. It was a splendid spring day: the brilliant blue sky offset the red earth beautifully, and the eager faces of the town’s inhabitants and farmers lining the streets were wide-eyed and smiling at the joyous display of colors and royal standards. I wished my children could have been there to see it all. At one point I stopped, struck by a farm worker’s daughter sitting on her father’s shoulders amid the crowd, so much did she resemble my little Isabel. When I looked back to the procession once more, my father and Philippe were still riding together under a golden canopy that several pages held above them; they had forgotten all about me and left me behind, I was greatly pained that they had not waited. Without even turning around, my father continued to ride toward the nearby cathedral accompanied solely by Philippe. A few feet farther on, I saw Cardinal Cisneros and my mother emerge to receive them.
For them to have reached the cathedral without me was a blunder that neither my mother nor I could disregard. But I refused to let myself be overcome with rage. I forgave their conceit, their male need to mark territory and punish the fleeting nostalgia of a woman who misses her child, because at that moment I laid eyes upon my mother. Dressed in black from head to toe, she had not granted herself or my father permission to come out of mourning, as she had her courtiers. My siblings’ deaths were clearly inscribed on her face, which I’d recalled as smooth and fair. Now the dark circles beneath her eyes denounced her grief, as did the deep lines curved from her nostrils to her mouth. But as soon as she saw me, her eyes shone from within their deeply shadowed sockets, and as she embraced Philippe, she looked at me sidelong and I understood the message in her eyes: don’t fret, daughter, I will put things right. Finally it was my turn to receive her embrace. I closed my eyes as she hugged me, taking in a scent so different from the rancid stench she’d had when I left. Now she smelled of lavender and wool. She ran her hands over the braids wrapped around my head, unable to contain a rare gesture of love. Six years had passed, and her happiness swelled that day under the arch of the Cathedral of Toledo, which we then entered to be sworn in as future sovereigns. Then came the Te Deum, hymns, and incense. We walked out into the ecstatic roar of the crowd.
The Scroll of Seduction Page 15