The Creation of Eve

by Lynn Cullen

  Please grant me the favor, great lady, of excusing me for the delay.

  From Rome,

  This 4th day of September, 1560

  Your servant,

  Tiberio Calcagni

  ITEM: When drawing, which is more difficult to perfect—the lines, or capturing light and shade?

  1 OCTOBER 1560

  El Alcázar, Toledo

  Excuse him? I care not where he has been. He could have been to Cathay and back for all the difference that makes. It is his lack of acknowledgment of what went on between Us that stings. Do I mean so little to him that he feels he owes me no explanation of his feelings toward me? Does he think I gave up my most private self to him just to become his prattling correspondent from over the seas? What a good secretary I have become, dutifully keeping copies of both my letters and his in this notebook, as if there were any value to them.

  I cannot think on this now, not after what has happened here. Indeed, just moving this quill against paper is painful. Yesterday morning, two days after his latest confrontation with Don Juan, the King entered the Queen’s chambers while I was dressing her. As I had received Tiberio’s letter the day before, I was distracted by my emotions, and the Queen, watchful girl that she is, picked Up on my discomfort and tried to wheedle out of me the cause of it.

  “My most serious Sofi,” she had said as I braided her hair, “you do stare into space like the King’s silver-headed dummy. What is it? Do you think of a new picture?”

  I crossed one handful of wavy dark hair over the other. “If only I had time for that.”

  “Then is it because you miss your family?”

  “I always miss my family.”

  She held Up her mirror and blinked at me, as if it were a novel idea that someone other than she had a family that was deeply missed. “H’m. Well. If that is not it, then you must be thinking of a man.”

  “A man,” I scoffed. “What men do I see besides doctor Hernández and the King’s Painter señor Alonso Sánchez Coello?” I put in the first comb. “And both of them are married.”

  “How I love my good and proper Sofi. Only you would be deterred by a man having a wife.”

  The Queen’s laughter stilled as the King walked into the chamber, his hand in his doublet, his demeanor more grave than usual. My distraction solidified into apprehension. Did he have orders in his pocket to send My Lady packing? It happens. Think of Anne of Cleves and Henry of England in Papà’s time. That good lady had done nothing but not to be to King Henry’s taste. Now My Lady seems not to be to our King’s, not with his reluctance to know her carnally. Worse, her constant defense of Don Juan provokes the King like salt in a festering wound. The most powerful man in the world has no obligation to tolerate it.

  “May I come in?” he said.

  I quickly stuck the last comb into the Queen’s hair and withdrew three steps behind her. None of the other ladies had yet arrived. Over by the bed, Francesca folded the Queen’s night robes.

  “Pardon me for coming so early,” the King told the Queen. He shifted his feet as if uncomfortable, as well he should be if he was breaking his alliance with France. The French Queen Mother would make it hot for him.

  The Queen rose. “You are always welcome here, My Lord.” Although she kissed his hand gracefully, her nerves showed in her voice. She, too, knew that her failure to please could not go on.

  “I have brought you something.” He glanced at me and frowned before digging inside his doublet. What he produced was not a document but a handful of white fluff with black button eyes.

  “For me?” the Queen gasped. “Oh, My Lord!” She rushed to retrieve the pup.

  A smile pushed at the corners of the King’s lips as she cradled it in her arms. “It came from France. I believe they call these white dogs chiens de Lyon.” He crossed his arms. “You do like dogs, do you not?”

  “You know I do,” she said. “And from France! Thank you, My Lord.”

  The King recrossed his arms, scowling as the Queen kissed the puppy and crooned to it in French.

  “See how he nibbles Upon my fingers, My Lord!”

  The King held Up his first two fingers, revealing a set of tiny red tooth-marks on the ends of them. “The pup does teethe. His teeth are needle-sharp. You must pet him on the back of his head, where he cannot bite on you.” He reached out to show her how to stroke the dog.

  In a flash of her old impetuous self, the Queen grasped the King’s nibbled-upon fingers and kissed them. “Poor you! Do they hurt?”

  He gazed at her as she held on to his fingers. “Not any longer.”

  The Queen looked at their joined hands, then slowly met his eyes. Cupping her head with his hand, he pulled her to him and softly kissed her.

  Her mouth parted as he withdrew.

  “I have been waiting to do that,” he said quietly.

  “Why, My Lord? Why have you waited? I have been waiting for you.”

  “You do not find me—?”

  “What, My Lord?”

  I could feel his glance upon me. I made as if pondering upon the spots of blue light cast by the leaded glass of the window onto the floor.

  “I have never had to force myself on a woman,” he said to her in a low voice. “Women have always wanted me. I have only had to choose from them.”

  “I know, My Lord.”

  “My first two wives—well, I was a young buck then, vainly proud of my thick hair and strong muscles. But you—” He drew in a quiet breath. “I am older now, and you were commanded to accept me. I was not your choice.”

  She laid her hand on his arm, her head thrust forward in earnestness. “But you are, Your Majesty. You are my choice.”

  He looked into her eyes as if to see if this was true, then smiled ruefully. “You are so young.”

  “I am old enough, My Lord,” she said stoutly.

  At that moment, the condesa flounced into the room, followed by an angry madame de Clermont and her ladies. Their argument stopped short when they discovered the King and Queen.

  The Queen held Up the puppy. “See what My Lord has brought me? A dog from France!”

  The Queen’s high spirits continued all that morning through Mass and breakfast, and then through distributing prayer books to the former church on the Calle de los Reyes that Cardinal Siliceo has made into a refuge for penitent women, during all of which she carried her new pup. I myself stayed behind in the litter at the refuge, made Uncomfortable by the downcast looks on the faces of the penitent women.

  But in spite of my own unhappiness, it was with a genuine bright countenance that I accompanied the Queen to the rooms of the King’s sister that afternoon. For how many times has My Lady entered Doña Juana’s quarters with her tail between her legs, aware, with all the rest of the court, of the presence of the King’s favorite?

  It is not as if My Lady had no reason to approach Doña Juana with caution. Doña Juana never seeks to lessen the Queen’s discomfort—indeed she seems to revel in it, insisting that doña Eufrasia sit near the Queen at Mass or hold the Queen’s train as My Lady and her sister-in-law stroll around the courtyard of the palace. Doña Juana seems to wish to draw everyone ’s attention, and particularly that of the King, to the difference between doña Eufrasia’s mature dark-haired beauty and the girlish ways of the Queen. Francesca has even heard it told that it is Doña Juana who arranges for the coach in which doña Eufrasia steals away at night and returns at dawn with the curtains drawn.

  Still, I wonder if Doña Juana’s machinations are meant solely to wound the Queen. She had encouraged the affair before the Queen had come to Spain. Perhaps more than anything Doña Juana savors the power she derives in controlling the King. It is but a small thing compared with controlling all of Spain as she did while he was wed to the English Queen Mary, but one takes what one can get.

  But yesterday, confident for once, the Queen flounced into the chamber where Doña Juana was having her fingernails clipped by doña Eufrasia. “See what the King has got me!�
� the Queen announced before the last of Us ladies had filed into the chamber.

  Over by the window, a lutist was tuning his instrument. Doña Juana exchanged amused smiles with doña Eufrasia as she withdrew her hand. “How precious,” she said sarcastically. “A little dog.”

  Doña Eufrasia rose and brushed the clippings from her skirt. “What did you name him, Your Majesty?” she asked, her voice as velvety as her skin.

  “Cher-Ami,” said the Queen. “ ‘Dear Friend ’ it means, in French.”

  “How nice that my brother has given you a little friend,” said Doña Juana. With a flash of bone-colored lashes, she shifted her gaze to the large diamond hanging from doña Eufrasia’s neck.

  The Queen followed her line of vision. “The King knows my heart. He knows he could not have given me a better gift. What care I for gems and fine stuffs—I have had plenty of them my whole life.”

  Doña Juana smiled smugly. “For someone who has no regard for jewels, you certainly seemed to enjoy the Great Pearl. Where is that big gob these days? I have not seen you wear it recently.”

  Hurt flicked through the Queen’s eyes, then was quickly replaced by a look of haughtiness that, alas, even with her pointed chin held high, was not entirely believable. “It was the first gift the King sent me. I cherish it.”

  “Oh, yes. It has been a much-cherished piece, hasn’t it?”

  The Queen stared at Doña Juana.

  “You mustn’t listen to those who say such a small breed of dog is Useless,” Doña Juana said. “They have their purpose as comforters. I have heard that when borne in the bosom of a diseased person, they can draw out the sickness by the exchange of their bodily heat.”

  The Queen opened her mouth, then closed it firmly. “I would not need a dog for that.”

  “Of course not.” Doña Juana smiled archly. She signaled for the lutist to begin his playing. He commenced into an English folk tune.

  “Why do you wish me such ill?” the Queen exclaimed.

  Doña Juana straightened the lace at her cuffs. “Why would you think that? You are dear to me, Sister. When I ruled our empire when my brother was in England, how I wished I had had my sister María with me—ruling half the world is lonely business, but you wouldn’t know that. But María was in Vienna, wed to the Prince there at my father’s wishes, and I was all alone, with not even my child to give me comfort. I gave Up everything that was precious to me to do Father’s bidding, and now Felipe is back, and I have nothing to do but go to Mass. How nice that I can do that now with such a sweet little kinswoman.”

  I may be only a painting instructor, but I could not bear to let Doña Juana defeat My Lady with her words. I leaned around the condesa to address the Queen. “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but did you not say you wished to take a ride into the countryside?”

  I could see the condesa stiffen. My own heart pounded with my boldness. Doña Juana was not a person to trifle with. But a country jaunt was sure to boost My Lady’s spirits, for the people of Toledo never fail to cheer for her when we go out by open litter to the various churches and convents in town, the only places she is allowed to visit Unescorted by the King. Folk shout their blessings and fall to their knees, and when she has passed, they run off bragging, “I have had the luck of seeing the Queen today!” For though she may be belittled by Doña Juana and not bedded by the King, the Spanish people love their Queen, and have loved her ever since that day she first rode into Guadalajara, looking brightly at the crowds.

  My Lady was confused for only the briefest of moments. “Yes, doña Sofonisba,” she said, seeking my eye. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  Outside, it was a perfect day in late September, the kind when the golden stone buildings of Toledo stand out crisply against the heartbreakingly blue sky. The Queen ordered that coaches be made ready for all her ladies, and Doña Juana begrudgingly agreed to join her. Soon we were preparing to take our places in the coaches lined up in the courtyard, where flocks of birds chattered noisily from the lime trees as they gathered to make their fall pilgrimage to Africa.

  “It is Unseasonably warm today,” complained the condesa de Urueña, who had joined us for the jaunt. She plucked the black robe of her widow’s habit away from her body as we stood behind the Queen, now being handed by her coachman into her coach. “We should be indoors, resting. Your Majesty, do you think it wise to go out in the hot sun?”

  The Queen had stopped to answer the condesa when her gaze fell Upon a red-and-yellow-painted open sporting conveyance, the sort designed for a lady driver and a companion, propped nearby on its empty leads. “Whose chariot is that?” she asked her man.

  “Her Majesty the King’s sister, My Lady,” said the coachman.

  “Why is it out?”

  “Her Majesty had Use of it last night.” He glanced at doña Eufrasia, now being handed into the coach of the King’s sister directly behind Us, then quickly lowered his eyes.

  The Queen set her mouth when she saw where the coachman had looked. “Hitch it Up,” she told him.

  “The chariot?”

  “Yes. Now. Please.”

  The coachman called to a stableboy, who ran to find a horse.

  “Your Majesty!” cried the condesa. “Do you think it safe to ride in a chariot in court clothes? You are not dressed for such.”

  “I should like some light exercise.”

  “But your train! The back of the chariot is completely open. Your train could slip onto the wheels.”

  “I shall keep it wrapped around my arm.”

  “Even if you could secure your dress, Your Majesty,” said the condesa, “the chariot holds only two, and I am not attired for driving, nor is madame de Clermont.”

  Madame de Clermont glared most Unlovingly at the condesa. “The Queen should be able to ride if she wishes.”

  “I do wish to drive,” said the Queen. “And Sofi will help me. You aren’t afraid, are you, Sofi, to ride in a little chariot?”

  I was careful not to look at the other ladies. They already felt that the Queen spent too much time with a mere painting instructor, when they were daughters of dukes and marquises. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  A horse was found to hitch to the chariot. The Queen handed her pup to madame de Clermont, grabbed the reins, and off we jostled, with the Queen shaking the reins and laughing, and me gripping the brow of the chariot, the Queen’s train wound around my arm.

  We started out at a sedate clip-clop, the coaches rumbling close behind Us. Folk rushed to their doors to shout blessings for the Queen—there were no such cheers for Doña Juana. But as soon as we left the dun-colored walls of the city, the Queen Urged our horse into a trot and struck out across the stony plain, leaving the line of lumbering carriages in our ochre cloud of dust.

  “Thank you,” she said, her raised voice vibrating from the rough ride. She saw my questioning expression. “For releasing me from that old dragon’s clutches.”

  “Most happy to help.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sofi.”

  We bumped along, my veil slipping to the side of my head. Though it was almost fall, heat radiated from the plain. To the west, mountains rose, silent and hazy blue against the stark sapphire sky.

  My Lady shook off her veil and let her hair whip in the wind.

  “Your Majesty is feeling bold today!” I shouted.

  “I am!”

  She looked behind and gasped. I followed her gaze to three riders, galloping from the city gate. They streaked toward us, raising a plume of yellow on the baking plain.

  “It’s Don Carlos and his caballeros!” I shouted.

  The Queen cracked our horse’s reins.

  I gripped the chariot, my teeth rattling with the bouncing wheels. “They try to catch Us!”

  She snapped the reins again. “I know!”

  Behind us, the condesa leaned out of her carriage, her shouts lost in the thudding of our wheels.

  My arm muscles burned as I clung to the
bouncing chariot. The caballeros drew closer, leaning over their horses. The tails of their animals flew straight out behind them.

  My veil blew from my head. I snatched at it, too late, causing the slippery cloth of Her Majesty’s train to slither down my front. Clinging one-handed to the chariot, I reeled in her train before it could drop beneath the base and catch in the wheels.

  At that moment, Don Juan urged his horse before the others. He galloped abreast, then snatched our horse’s bridle.

  The chariot ground to a bumpy halt.

  The Queen laughed and coughed as she waved off the cloud of dust. “Why did you do that?”

  Don Juan said nothing, just jumped down and stroked the nose of our horse, whose nostrils flared with exhaustion. Its graceful neck was slick with sweat.

  Don Carlos galloped Up with Don Alessandro. “Why did you run from us, My Lady?” the Prince said in an injured voice.

  The wind tugged at the Queen’s skirts and at the lengths of her silk train that I juggled in my arms. “I was racing you,” she said. “I was beating you, too!”

  “You had a head start,” said Don Alessandro. “We would have caught up.”

  “You shouldn’t have run from us,” said Don Carlos.

  The Queen pulled back her chin and smiled. “I was just playing, Toad.”

  The wind had torn the tails of Don Juan’s white shirt from his breeches, exposing his taut belly as he whispered to our horse, his lips brushing her ears. Still blowing hard, the animal rolled her gaze at him, exposing the whites of her eyes.

  The Queen tapped her fingers on the brow of the chariot. “Well, Don Juan, how go the wedding plans? Now that you are fifteen, won’t you claim your wife?”

  Don Juan kissed the white velvet of the blaze on our horse’s nose, then gazed at the Queen. “What wedding plans?”

  “With my sister. Oh, I know about them. I got my mother’s letter yesterday. She says the King is considering her offer.”

  “I do what I am told.”

  “Oh, you do, now? Well, congratulations. Her dowry will make you one of the richest men in Spain.”