by Lynn Cullen
Don Carlos sat up, puffing out his sunken chest. “Mind whom you speak to, woman. I am the heir to the Spanish Empire.”
The condesa took Up her pomander in consternation.
“Don’t worry, Toad,” the Queen said mildly, “I would make an exception for you.”
“You would?”
“Please excuse me, My Lady,” said the condesa, “but you said if doña Sofonisba were to paint portraits, they should be of you alone.”
“I made that rule,” said the Queen, “I can break it. Sofi, would you mind?”
“Of course not.” I straightened my pile of paper, panicking at the thought of making this willowy wisp of a youth appear as a stout limb of the Spanish family tree. Is this how the great Leonardo had felt, when pressured by Isabella d’Este, Duchess of Mantua, to do her portrait? For years, it is said, the duchess badgered maestro Leonardo to paint her. The most he could ever produce was a sketch of her profile, painful in its portrayal of her thin lips and large nose. On the other hand, there are subjects so beautiful the artist finds himself portraying them over and over, as maestro Michelangelo had painted his secretary, Tommaso Cavalieri, when signore Tommaso had been young. I had seen study after study of signore Tommaso in the Maestro’s house. I even recognized him in the fresco of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel—arrows in hand, he is the handsomely pensive Saint Sebastian.
Don Carlos pressed an exuberant kiss on the Queen’s hand. “Thank you, My Lady!” He clambered over and knelt before me on one knee. “Could you paint me soon, doña Sofonisba?”
“I can start whenever Her Majesty wishes me to.”
“I should like you to start now.”
The Queen nodded at me, her chin tucked back in amused affection.
“Now? Truly?” Don Carlos raked his fingers through his thistledown hair. “How should I stand?”
Don Alessandro stopped the page bringing in fruit on a blue and yellow ceramic tray. “You ought to hold the Rod of Office,” he said, taking some grapes.
“Like thus?” Don Carlos struck a pose with his hands clenching an imaginary staff.
I saw the Queen hide her smile.
“I do believe you appear to be shimmying up a pole,” said Don Alessandro.
“Or milking a cow.” Don Juan entered the chamber with a playful grin on that fresh country face so like the King’s yet so different. “A very noble cow, of course.”
“Your words do not hurt me,” Don Carlos said, though he dropped his hands to his side.
The Queen sat up, her cheeks suddenly bright.
“Perhaps it would be best if you just continued talking with the Queen, Your Majesty,” I suggested to the Prince. “I can sketch informally, to get a measure of your face. It will take me some time to plan a painting. Usually I do several studies first.”
The Queen shook her head at madame de Clermont, who offered to get her fruit. “Meanwhile, we shall have a sketching party.”
“Sounds entertaining.” Don Alessandro dangled some grapes over his mouth. “Though poor ‘Sofi’ will be doing all the work.”
“You forget,” said the Queen. “I can draw, too.”
“You are talented and beautiful,” said Don Alessandro, munching. “I think I shall die of love.”
“Shut your mouth,” Don Carlos growled.
Don Juan petted the little spaniel that had jumped down from madame de Clermont’s lap to run to him. The little dog turned its head in pleasure as Don Juan scratched its back. “My Lady, I am sorry to hear that you lost your dear pet,” he said to the Queen.
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.
“How do your drawing lessons go?” he asked gently. “Is she a good student?” he asked me.
“The best,” I said.
Don Alessandro cut me a look. “As excellent a student as you were with maestro Michelangelo?”
I fumbled with my box of chalks. “The Queen excels me.”
“Of course,” he said.
Don Juan gave madame’s little spaniel one last pat. “Your Majesty,” he asked the Queen, “would you like to practice your sketching on me?”
Don Alessandro looked between the two of them, wiping his mouth. “Yes. Do start with Uncle.”
The Queen’s sadness disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I am going to start with Don Juan,” she said, “because he asked me nicely.”
“Is that why?” said Don Alessandro.
The Queen rose from her embroidery frame. “Sofi, do you have a chalk and paper I can Use?”
At the Queen’s bidding, and with sarcastic laughter from Don Alessandro, Don Carlos and Don Juan struck poses on the pillows before Us, Don Juan rather tentatively, Don Carlos proud as a dog with a new bone. The Queen settled next to me at the window. We began by holding out our chalks, to take measurement of our subject’s heads, to transfer the proportion to our paper.
The Queen made a few marks, then stopped to watch me. “I am sorry, Don Juan, my sketch will not be as good as Sofi’s.”
“That wouldn’t be your fault,” said Don Juan. “You are hampered by poor subject matter.”
“Now that’s the truth,” Don Alessandro said over his mouthful of grapes. “Can’t they do any better than you, Uncle, out there in the country?”
“What ails you today, Don Alessandro?” said the Queen. “You are as bitter as spoiled wine.”
He smiled and crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t say such a thing to Don Juan.”
“I would not need to.” The Queen squinted at her Upheld chalk to gauge another measurement. She lowered her arm. “Has anyone told you how much you look like the King, Don Juan? You have the same forehead and brows. You can tell that you are brothers.”
“Except that whereas the King’s mother was a queen,” said Don Alessandro, “Don Juan’s mother was a whore.”
I winced. The ladies glanced at one another before resuming their sewing.
Don Alessandro laughed. “What is wrong with everybody? I merely speak the facts. You don’t take offense, do you, Uncle?”
Don Juan did not answer.
“Dear Alessandro,” the Queen scolded, “the rules of courtesy apply even to the Royal Family. You should apologize.”
Madame’s little spaniel jumped in Don Juan’s lap. He smoothed the dog’s fur over the bony knob at the top of its head. “It does not matter.”
“No.” The Queen put down her chalk. “He should.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Don Alessandro.
“I don’t care if your father is the Duke of Parma and your mother the regent of the Netherlands,” said the Queen. “Do you know what happened to an heir to the throne of France when he thought he was above common sense?”
Don Alessandro made a face of weary annoyance. “No.”
“This is a true story. It is about my father’s brother.”
“Oh, good—a story!” Don Carlos crawled forward, then sprawled at her feet. “Tell me, My Lady.”
“Are you sure you are comfortable, Toad? The floor looks very hard.” He knocked a green-and-orange-glazed tile. “Not so bad. Please, tell me!”
“Very well, then. For you, Toady, I will.” The Queen spread her skirts over her knees. I sat back, too, unable to work with Don Carlos out of position.
“Not so very long ago, before my father was King, his younger brother went riding to war with his friends somewhere in northern France. There were three or four of them, all of them young and full of high spirits and mischief, for they were going to join a real battle, not just jousting and riding at the lists.”
Don Carlos nodded vigorously.
“They rode along,” said the Queen, “running their horses into each other and throwing chestnuts, and calling each other names. And then, in the midst of their merriment, they came to a village. There they went from house to house, thinking to demand food, but all the cottages were empty. For you see, the plague had freshly struck.”
“Oh, no,” Don Alessandro groaned. “Not a plague
story.”
“Shh!” said Don Carlos. “I’m listening, My Lady.”
“Thank you, Toad. Well, the young men staggered from cottage to vacant cottage, drinking, singing, and carousing, becoming more and more rambunctious as they went. By the time they stumbled into the last cottage, they were overturning tables and smashing the crockery. Suddenly, one of them had a brilliant idea: ‘Why don’t we slash the mattresses with our swords?’ ”
Don Carlos’s eyes brightened.
“Oh,” said the Queen, “that was great, good fun, indeed, destroying all those mattresses. And then, when there were no more mattresses to slash, they had a merry pillow fight. The down was still fluttering onto the shoulders of my father’s brother when he cried out, ‘No son of the King of France has ever died of the plague! I could wrap myself in these sheets and never fall prey to it.’ One of his friends said, ‘Would you like to bet?’ And my father’s brother said, ‘Oui!’ So they placed their drunken wagers and he rolled in the empty sheets.”
“Fool!” Don Carlos shouted.
“This is my uncle,” the Queen reminded him.
Don Carlos frowned in contrition. “Lo siento.”
“Apology accepted,” said the Queen, then continued. “Later that evening, when he joined his father the King at camp, my father’s brother began to vomit. Soon his body burned with fever. His arms and legs shook like reeds in the wind. Priests were called, doctors consulted, and surgeons put to work with their lancets and leeches.”
The Queen gazed over her audience: The ladies held their breath, hands frozen over their embroidery; Don Alessandro stood with arms crossed; Don Carlos chewed at his drooping lip. Only Don Juan looked away.
“Three days later,” the Queen said quietly, “twenty-three-year-old Charles d’Orléans was dead.”
Don Carlos leaned forward and kissed the hem of her gown. “I would never roll in plaguey sheets, My Lady!”
The Queen smiled fondly upon him. “I know you wouldn’t, Toad.”
“Good story.” Don Alessandro popped a grape into his mouth. “But I have been wanting to ask you, Uncle—just who was your mother, anyhow?”
I stopped sketching.
“Don Alessandro,” the Queen said in warning.
Don Juan stroked the spaniel’s silky ears. “It does not bother me. I know only what I’ve been told. She was from Austria, a minor nobleman’s daughter.”
“So not a common whore,” said Don Alessandro. “I apologize, Uncle.”
Don Carlos rolled over to look at Don Juan. “Don Luis never told you much, did he?”
“Don Luis was your foster father?” the Queen said.
“Yes, My Lady, don Luis Quijada,” said Don Juan. “He was the vice-chamberlain of His Majesty the Emperor—he has retired to his estate in Villagarcía.”
“Villagarcía—near Valladolid?” said Don Carlos. He gazed around to see if anyone noticed his knowledge of the kingdom.
“Yes,” said Don Juan. “His Majesty the Emperor chose well when he picked don Luis to raise me. I could not have had a kinder, wiser father. But kind as he was, don Luis did seem to have a sense of mystery.”
The Queen commenced again on her sketching. “Please hold your face to the right, Don Juan.”
“Until the moment I met my brother the King,” he said, doing as told, “don Luis would not tell me who my father was, though don Luis treated me with such care that I imagined—at least I truly hoped—I was his own illegitimate son. I thought that if I were just good enough, don Luis would finally admit I was his flesh and blood.”
“Perhaps you should turn your head back like you had it a moment ago,” said the Queen.
“Like this?”
She nodded solemnly, the Undressed ends of her hair swishing against her back.
“Go on with your story about don Luis,” said Don Carlos. “Should I get back into position as well, doña Sofonisba?”
I nodded.
“Where was I?” said Don Juan.
“You weren’t good enough,” said Don Alessandro.
Don Juan gave Don Alessandro a long look before continuing. “I think don Luis’s wife suspected I was his love child, yet she was kind to me, even though she believed her husband was making her raise his mistress’s son. Imagine her relief when she found out whose son I really was.”
“I don’t think I could be so good if I thought I was raising the child of my husband ’s mistress,” said the Queen.
“Oh, you would be,” the condesa muttered, over at her embroidery frame, “if you had to be.”
Don Alessandro went over and plucked an orange off the platter. He tossed it to Don Juan. “Well, if you must be a bastard, Uncle, you might as well be a Royal one.”
Don Juan handed the orange to Don Carlos. “I suppose, though I was happy enough imagining I was don Luis’s secret son.”
Sharp footsteps sounded in the hall. The King entered, followed by his secretary. Rosary beads clicked amongst rustling skirts as all of Us hastened into curtseys. The King quickly waved Us Up as he walked over to the Queen. “I am taking a break from my paperwork,” he said in his cold voice. “How do you fare, My Lady?” He raised her Up and kissed her hand.
When he gazed in my direction, I rushed forward to pay my respect. He nodded at the drawings at which the Queen and I had been working, as I put my lips to his cool perfume-scented skin.
“We are sketching, My Lord,” the Queen said. “Don Carlos and Don Juan.”
“I see.” He embraced Don Carlos, then let Don Juan kiss his hand.
“We were listening to Don Juan’s hilarious story, Father,” Don Carlos said, “about how as an orphan, his fondest wish was to be the real son of the country squire who raised him. Whoever would have guessed he was not just a gentleman’s son, but the true son of the Emperor?”
“Yes,” said the King. “Whoever would have.”
“You’ve never told me, Father,” said Don Carlos, “how did you and Don Juan first meet?”
The King pressed his lips together. “I do not remember. It was not important.”
“It was in a field,” said Don Juan.
Rich fabrics rustled as everyone turned to listen.
“A field?” said Don Carlos. “Not in a palace or such? That is odd, Father.”
“His Majesty was hunting,” said Don Juan. “In the countryside outside Segovia.” He looked at the King.
The ladies made busy with their needlework, as I did with my chalk. No one wished to be made party to a confrontation with the King.
In this atmosphere of sudden busyness, the Queen put down her chalk and held Up her chin. “Please go on, Don Juan. I want to hear.”
The King turned his countenance upon her. “Yes, Juan. Please do.”
Don Juan paused as if weighing the consequences of his words. “I was brought to the King by don Luis. My foster father and I were made to wait and watch as His Majesty shot a deer.”
“A deer?” The Queen frowned at her husband.
“A buck—it had a long white scar on one of its shoulders.” Don Juan gazed at the King. “His Majesty’s beaters had driven it from its cover and toward the King. When the buck was down and they were carving out its heart, the King came over and told me who my father was.”
“You have a good memory,” the King said grimly.
“At times, Your Majesty.”
The King looked between Don Juan and the Queen. “I had a better memory when I was not so burdened with matters of state. Being King of most of the world since I was eighteen years of age interferes with remembering all my little hunts.” His Majesty nodded at my sketch. “Finish that quickly. My son should be with his tutors, not dallying away his day in idle pastimes.”
Is it a surprise that His Majesty did not come to My Lady’s chamber last night?
Now a page has come, announcing that the Queen has sent for me. I must hide my notebook and join her in this place where the thorny canes of discord spread in the tranquil shade of civility.
To My Very Magnificent Signorina Sofonisba,
In the Court of the Spanish King
Imagine my happiness and my dismay when I returned to Rome this day and found the letter you sent in February. Happiness, because I have heard from you. Dismay, because your letter has gone unanswered all this time. I have been in Florence on a mission for maestro Michelangelo, to present his designs for a church to Duke Cosimo de’ Medici. My trip far exceeded my expectations. The Duke commended the Maestro for the drawings and me for my presentation of them. He then bade me to make a clay model based on the drawings, and, approving that, bade me to make a wooden model. All this took time, and the receptions and dinners that the Duke requested that I attend both as his distant kinsman and as the Maestro’s representative did nothing to speed along my work, though I did enjoy the food. A man there named Suria makes pig’s livers so succulent they melt on your tongue. Do they know the galliard called “Kick to the Tassel” in the Spanish court? I had never seen it before. It was all they wished to dance in Florence. There is much pirouetting and kicking and jiggling of ladies’ flesh.
The Maestro asks how you fare. Be flattered. He usually asks after no one, caring for few beyond his nephew, Lionardo, whom he writes faithfully, though he gives Lionardo a verbal cuffing in most of his letters. I still have my studio in the old man’s home, but it is possible that will not be the case much longer. I fear for some reason he does not care much for me anymore. He looked the other way when I greeted him upon returning from Florence; then he walked away before I finished speaking to him. Yet no sooner than I had gone up to my studio to gaze upon the unfinished Pietà, he came in and plunked a rough bust of a Caesar on the table and said, Here. Finish it.
I grow weary now, having just returned to my lodging, but when I saw your letter I did not wish to keep you waiting another moment. A boy walks under my window—let me catch him to post this letter.