by Lynn Cullen
She Used a childish voice. “You will build her a pretty house, won’t you? She does look cold.” She pulled free of him and waggled her hand through the cage bars.
One of the Africans jumped forward. Two of the King’s men held him back as he shouted in his own language. I caught Cher-Ami as he tried to spring, yapping, from my arms.
The King nodded at the African politely. “I believe he is concerned about your safety, my darling.” He tucked the Queen’s hands Under her robe, then turned her around and drew her against him so that she could watch the lion. “Let Us not put ourselves within the reach of the beast.”
Patting Cher-Ami to calm him, I gazed at the lioness pacing back and forth across the far reaches of its cage. Straw crunched Under paws both frightening and endearing in their heaviness.
“What does it eat, Your Majesty?” I asked.
The King lifted his chin from Her Majesty’s neck. “H’m? It hasn’t touched the beef we’ve given it. I think we shall have to put a lamb into its cage.”
“Oh, no!” said the Queen.
“Sorry, darling. I fear it might eat its food only live.”
I shuddered. The lamb would make an easy kill in this cage little larger than a horse’s stall.
“Are you cold?” the King asked the Queen. “Perhaps we should go back to the palace.”
“No! I swear I cannot bear one more minute within those walls.”
“ ‘Those walls’ are covered with the most costly tapestries in the world.”
“Please, My Lord, do let Us walk.” Before the King had agreed, she said, “Stay in the litter, Sofi, and keep Cher-Ami warm.”
With the assistance of a guard, I climbed back Up onto the brocade couch of the litter, trying to keep my balance as the mules, nervous to be in such close proximity to the lioness, jerked the conveyance. Cher-Ami whimpered as his mistress strolled off in the direction of the garden maze, still green at this time of year with its sturdy walls of trimmed juniper.
I huddled Under the squirrel fur and occupied myself with trying to interpret the exclamations of the African gentlemen. When that failed in spite of my familiarity with many languages, I listened to the shriek of Unseen peacocks in some distant part of the garden.
The confident face of doctor Debruyne flashed through my mind. It came to me often, as inexplicably and irritatingly as does a niggling melody from a silly song, though I had not seen him since last May. Now, as in the other times, I strived to put the memory of him neatly out of my head. Yet as firmly as I plugged the dam of remembrance against him, new holes sprang forth and out the thought of him burst. What new discoveries might he be making? Was he having new successes with coca or tobacco or the potato? Did he ever think of me and our experiment—of me, the woman who dared try a new herb in the name of science?
Did he have a woman?
I was fooling myself. He would never want me. Tiberio had not. In addition, the last sight he had of me was with green drool running down my chin and an idiot’s lumpy grin Upon my face. Definitely not the kind of memory to stick in a man’s mind, I reminded myself, at least not in the way a woman would want. He must think me repugnant, a woman who failed to know her place. Just as well if I never saw him again. Indeed, he must have been avoiding me. Surely I would have seen him before we had left Aranjuez.
I jumped down from the litter, Unable to stew in these thoughts another moment. Giving the lioness wide berth, I set out briskly, Cher-Ami snuffling the air eagerly from Under my arm. I was spending altogether too much time around the Queen with her fixation Upon rutting. I needed something challenging to occupy my mind—a Latin book to translate, a medical text to read, a painting commission. I did have my studies of Don Alessandro, made at his insistence when I had seen him at Christmas, and had started Upon the Underpainting of his portrait, but the work had come to a standstill. For even at that stage, with the picture composed in greenish gray, a disconcerting sadness kept creeping into his haughty and playful face, a sadness that troubled me to paint it.
Distracted by this thought, I skirted the maze, wishing, all the while, I had not left the warmth of the furs on the litter. Just then I heard the swish of greenery. Her Majesty’s voice came from within the hedges.
“Surely no one can see Us here.” I could hear her chuckle. “Now, My Lord, how does that feel?”
I held my breath. Did they not know how close to the outer wall of the maze they had wandered?
I heard moist smacking, then the King’s muffled voice. “Why do you love me?”
There was a rustling of cloth. A male groan. The Queen whispered, “You know why.”
His voice was gruff. “Is that all?”
“Do you need another reason?”
“Yes.”
Though his breathing came harder now, her voice was steady. “I just do.”
“Say that you love me, Elisabeth. For the love of God—” He broke off with a groan. There was a crackling of greenery being crushed.
I broke for the litter and, finding it, clambered aboard. I buried my face in my robe as Cher-Ami licked the strip of exposed skin below my glove.
To the Magnificent Sofonisba Anguissola,
In the Court of the Spanish King
First of all, I apologize for the lateness of my reply. I fear the Maestro’s mail is being detained, as is mine, as a resident in his house. I received your letter only yesterday, more than a year after you had written. The Maestro is under some sort of investigation, the full extent of which he will not tell me. His usual critics, he says. I gather it is about the frescoes in the Sistine Chapel. Even the Pope rails against them now. The Maestro, ever sarcastic, asked the Pope if His Holiness should not worry more about putting the world to right than some pictures. The Pope was not amused. It is dangerous to bait such a powerful man in this way, especially now that all are up in arms about the riots against the Church in Northern Europe. But since when has the old man ever been cautious about what he says and does?
I do not write, however, to speak about the Maestro. I write about us, though by the time you get this the King has probably settled your portion upon a more worthy gentleman. But truth will out: My dear Sofonisba, you must know that I wish to be more to you than a recipient of your letters. But do you not understand that you are a Lady of the Spanish court, and, in this vaunted role, unapproachable by the son of a Florentine whose fortune was made on providing vestments for the clergy? My family has wealth and standing in Florence and in Rome, but not of the sort which the King of Spain would consider appropriate for his ward. The Calcagnis are rich merchants, but we are merchants just the same, and you, now, are a great lady, as the Maestro has so kindly reminded me, over and over. You are no longer the daughter of Count Amilcare Anguissola, a learned man but not a high-ranking one. See—I did look into my prospects with you, soon after you left Rome that spring four years ago. I asked my friend Giorgio Vasari to make inquiries of your family in Cremona while he was there to interview you for his book The Lives of the Artists, but by the time he arrived, you had already left for Spain. You should be honored, by the way, that he included you in his book. He did not include me. Oh, and furthermore—if you need additional proof of your high stature in the world—there is a commemorative medal of you circulating around Rome. The Maestro brought me one not long ago. He made rather a fuss about it, making a point about your great place in the pantheon of artists. Rest assured, there is no commemorative medal of me.
I hate to end this letter, for I fear it will be my last to you. Do not think I shall ever forget you, my beautiful Sofonisba, or that night we were as husband and wife. I shall treasure it forever.
For your own protection, burn this letter when you are done with it. The world is an uneasy place these days.
With love from Rome,
this 23rd day of November, 1563
Tiberio Calcagni
To Tiberio Calcagni in Rome
I send this by the King’s express courier, saying it is an inquiry int
o acquiring a religious picture for the Queen, though I have never before misused my position here in this manner. How easily it is done!
The Queen asks me if I want a husband. Until now I have said no, but emboldened by your letter, I could ask her to settle me upon you. For whatever reason, she favors me and would do this. Are you desirous of this? Should I ask her?
I am gratified to be the recipient of the medal, but I do not understand it. I still have not even the rank of the Painter to the Queen here, nor was I much more than a curiosity in the courts of Mantua and Milan. But these things matter little to me, as long as I hear from you.
From Madrid,
this 3rd day of January, 1564
Sofonisba Anguissola
ITEM: The fox is a crafty and deceitful animal that never runs in a straight line. When it wants to catch birds to eat, it lies lifeless until birds land near it, at which point they are immediately consumed.
ITEM: “Shadow is the greater power than light, in that it can impede and entirely deprive bodies of light.”
—MAESTRO LEONARDO DA VINCI
26 FEBRUARY 1564
The Palace, Aranjuez
It was a chill day in late February. A wind full of the smell of dead vegetation rattled the few withered leaves that clung tenaciously to the elms across the river, and snatched at our veils and cloaks. We were walking through the King’s flower garden as our coaches were being prepared to go to the hunt. Besides the King and Queen, Doña Juana, and a few attendants, Don Carlos was there, too, in celebration of Carnival. I myself was in a daze, wondering what Tiberio would say to my letter. Would he say yes, for me to ask the King and Queen to settle my portion Upon him? If so, would he come here, or would I go to Rome? And if all this should miraculously come to pass after so much time, how would I behave around him? It has been four years. He is as a stranger to me. But oh, I remember the feel of his body. The firmness of his hands, made rough by his work in stone. The way his veins tenderly bulged in the soft skin inside his wrist. The wiriness of the curls at his neck. Yet it is more than his flesh I remember. I had felt his tender soul tremble, and he had felt mine.
“Sofonisba.”
Doña Juana dropped back from strolling with the King and Queen. “Thinking about something?” Her lips curled in a knowing smile.
I blushed, fearing she could hear my thoughts. She seemed to have that power. “Your Majesty, how may I be of service?”
“I have decided to remove the portrait you have done of me from my convent.”
“Your Majesty, would you like me to make some changes to it?” I glanced at Don Carlos, sidling Up next to the Queen to take Doña Juana’s position.
“No,” said Doña Juana. “I suppose you have done the best you are capable of with it. I have given it to Inquisitor-General Valdés. He has always wanted a portrait of me.”
“That is most kind, Your Majesty.”
“I thought he could hang it in his Hall of Justice, next to the portrait of the King. After all, I was the Regent for those years the King was in England with Queen Mary—the people have come to associate me with justice.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Conscious of Doña Juana’s gaze Upon me, I kept my own gaze fixed straight ahead, to where Don Carlos whispered earnestly to the Queen. The King laid a languid hand Upon the back of the Queen’s neck.
“Well,” said Doña Juana, “Inquisitor-General Valdés says your friend has certainly benefited from his friends in high places, hasn’t he?” She smiled at my puzzled expression. “Michelangelo Buonarroti, I mean. If he were not a favorite of the Pope, his punishment would have been greater.” She watched my face. “You do know of the decision?”
I concentrated on plucking a leaf bit from my shawl. “No, Your Majesty.”
She lowered her broad brow to watch me with those fierce bone-lashed eyes. “His work in the Sistine Chapel is to be destroyed.”
Her neck in the King’s grasp, the Queen turned slightly, interrupting Don Carlos. “Have you not been speaking of such for years, dear sister?” she said to Doña Juana.
“Actually, this decision was only just made. As busy as you have been, my sister, with trying to fill a cradle, I can Understand how you have not been able to keep Up with current affairs.”
Doña Juana smiled as the Queen returned her face forward. “At any rate,” she said to me, “I would venture to say the chapel will be improved by whitewashing the walls. Good-bye to the young louts with their acorns.”
The King frowned over his shoulder at her.
We continued our stroll, the ladies’ skirts dragging on the damp stone of the path. A knot clenched in my stomach. Adam receiving the touch of life from God; the story of Noah, rendered with Understanding and love; the human body celebrated in all its glory; even the curious quiet painting of Eve: all of it, destroyed.
She brushed her slipper against a withered stalk that had sprawled Upon our path. “Really, Felipe, you must have your gardeners pull these. I cannot Understand why you will not let them. I care not if it came from the New World—truly, it is no better than a weed.”
“The seedpods were quite interesting,” said the King. “They are said to be quite nutritious, though they do look a little off-pUtting.”
I gazed at the shriveled brown stalks
“What is the name of the ridiculous weed?” asked Doña Juana.
The King patted the Queen’s neck as she turned to look. “I believe,” he said, “they call it ‘maize.’ ”
A mule-drawn coach lumbered Up at the end of the garden to take Us to the hunt. The King and his son, as well as the Queen and myself, took seats in the first conveyance. Off we went with a jerk.
In time we passed through the leafless brown ranks of the mulberry grove to the east of the palace. “How are the silkworms doing that came last year from China?” the King asked the Queen.
The Queen turned slowly from where she’d been looking out the window, stroking Cher-Ami’s head. “I have not attended to them, My Lord.”
“I thought we agreed that you would tend to the silkworms in the afternoons, when I was working in my office,” said the King.
“I have been resting, My Lord,” said the Queen.
“Well, I must not argue with that.” He kissed her fingers.
Across the coach, Don Carlos slumped against the leather paneling, his blue-veined eyelids fluttering as he fought off sleep. The King sighed. “I have such fond memories of my mother collecting silk. I wish for you only the same contentment that it brought her. I can still see her wide brow—Juana’s brow, Juana resembles Mother in that way—crumpled in concentration as she unwound each little cocoon.”
Don Carlos didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Did she not have servants to do that?”
“Mother enjoyed it. She spent hours at it. It was intense, meticulous work. I believe I have inherited her ability to concentrate on details for long periods of time.” The King smiled. “Still, as a young child, I saw not the merits of her concentrating on her work for hours on end. All I wished was for her to pay attention to me.”
The King kissed the Queen’s fingers again, then put her hand in his lap. “I remember once I climbed Up next to her on her bench, trying to get close to her as she Unraveled a silken filament from a cocoon and wound it Upon a golden spindle. She must have momentarily rested her hand Upon the bench—perhaps her fingers had gotten weary. I did not see them. All I knew was that I wished to be close to her.” He grimaced. “I could hear her finger crack, just like a stick, as I sat Upon it.”
Don Carlos’s blue lids folded open. “You broke your mother’s f inger?”
“I did not mean to. There was a crack and she cried out. Then someone snatched me Up and took me away. I could hear her sobs all the way back to the palace. I thought, I have done that to her. I am little, and I have done that. I could not believe a little shoot like me could hurt my all-powerful mother.” He looked out the window. “It is my earliest memory.”
&n
bsp; The Queen raised her gaze to him.
“I did not mean to hurt her,” he said.
“Whether you meant to or not,” said Don Carlos, “the effect was the same. Did she forgive you?”
“Yes. She knew my intentions were good. After all, I acted out of love.”
Our coach hurtled down the narrow lane, then through an almond orchard, past black limbs budded with pearls of white. Into a deep wood of naked oak we soon passed, then came Upon a raised platform fitted out with cushioned benches. From either side of the platform, a billowing wall of Unbleached cloth stretched deep into the forest, forming an ever-widening chute. Alighting from the coach, I could hear hounds baying and beaters hallooing as they whipped the brush to raise deer from their hidden nests.
“Men, take your positions. Women, steer clear!” shouted Don Carlos. His weariness seemingly forgotten, he drew his sword and ran ahead of his father, ducking Under the cloth raised by one of the many men stationed along the temporary wall.
The next coach arrived. I tried not to think of the frightened animals that would soon be leaping down the chute and to their deaths.
Doña Juana trudged Up the steps to the platform. “I wish they would get this over with. I have more important business than watching menfolk skewer deer.”
The King shaded his eyes to look Up at his sister, whose loud voice must have been audible from where he stood. “I seem to recall your eagerness to hunt when allowed to shoot deer from a coach.”