by Lynn Cullen
The condesa came over with a towel. “Feeling better?”
“Much!”
I watched the condesa as she went to retrieve the Queen’s robe. Had she really been promised to the King? No wonder she wished the Queen such ill, when My Lady’s only real crimes were to be impetuous and naïve.
“I ask you to reconsider this,” I whispered to the Queen, “for your own good.”
“My good? You make too much of a little headache.”
Truly, the excitement of the evening ahead did seem to buoy her Up through Mass and then breakfast, though the day was so stifling it stopped the breath within one ’s lungs. By the time she was to get dressed for the reception, the only sign of her headache was a certain tension in her eyes and in her knotted jaw.
After we had tied the last diamond-encrusted bow of her bodice, My Lady stepped from our hands to swish her new gown. “How does it look?”
Every inch of her white silk overgown had been embroidered with tight coils of gold wire in the shapes of intertwining vines and flowers. From the center of each blossom winked a perfect diamond. Tiny diamonds glittered from the gossamer lace of her collar, which had been wired Upright to cup her face. Be it from fever or excitement, an otherworldly spark burned in her eyes. Together with her sparkling raiment, she looked every inch an angel from heaven.
“You shall steal everyone ’s heart,” said madame de Clermont, swathed in her usual veils.
The condesa raised her pomander to her nose. “Everyone’s.”
From the door, a male voice said, “Magnificent.”
I snatched Up the Queen’s train so that she would not stumble Upon it as she turned. The King stood in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest.
“You are a vision, my love.”
She waited to receive his kiss, then pushed against him with her fingertips. “Your beard is prickly.”
“I am sorry, pet,” he said, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. “I came to make sure you felt well enough to attend the reception.”
“I am restored by your touch, My Lord.”
A crash of thunder cut short his look of bemusement.
“Perhaps it will finally rain tonight,” he said. “Our farmers certainly need it.”
“Let the rain hold off Until tomorrow,” said the Queen. “It will ruin people ’s finery tonight.”
Veils a-rustle, madame de Clermont hurried over to the iron-railed window from which the heavy drapes had been drawn to let in the evening air. “The guests begin to arrive,” she announced.
The Queen pulled from the King and went to the window adjacent to madame ’s, Cher-Ami tottering behind her.
“Slow down, slow down!” the King exclaimed, following good-naturedly. “Oh—doña Sofonisba.”
I paused on my way over to madame ’s window.
“I meant to tell you today, but a little bird interrupted me—my agent in Italy said that at the time he was in Rome, the paintings in the Sistine Chapel had not yet been covered. Perhaps the Pope has changed his mind.”
I nodded, grateful for his news.
Madame announced, “The Duke of Mendoza arrives.”
The King went to his wife. When I joined the condesa at madame ’s window, she was watching the King and Queen, not the people arriving below.
The King wrapped his arms around the Queen and rested his bearded chin on her shoulder. “Remember the reception he gave Us in honor of our marriage?”
“How can I forget, My Lord? It was the first time that I saw you.”
“Yes. You found my beard to be gray.”
“It was you that said that, not I.”
She kept her gaze Upon the guests entering the palace as he kissed her ear. “As for me,” he said, “I was thinking what a gift God had sent me. I did not think I deserved such an angel.”
She drew a sharp breath.
He smiled, thinking it was his words that had moved her, Until he followed her gaze below. “What, darling?” he said, frowning.
“Your friend.”
I looked in the direction of her nod. On the arm of the young and darkly handsome Prince of Ascoli, to whom she had been this year wed, was doña Eufrasia, dressed in a gorgeous apple-green gown. But as stunning as were doña Eufrasia’s clothes and jewels, that was not what attracted the eye. No, one ’s gaze was instantly drawn to the panel below her bodice, from which protruded her luxuriously pregnant belly.
Both the condesa and madame turned to the Queen to gauge her r eaction.
There was a long pause. “Her child looks to be due before mine,” the Queen said.
The King’s voice was icy. “I did not know she was pregnant.”
I glanced over and saw the Queen staring elsewhere.
A lady in russet alit from the next conveyance and was handed down by a fair-haired gentleman. I saw that it was Don Juan.
The Queen’s swallow was audible from where I stood. I could feel the condesa’s gaze sharpen Upon the King and Queen.
“So,” said the King. “My brother joins Us. Bold, after he disobeyed me and left Rome. A cardinal’s hat awaited him, and he threw it away.”
“He left the Church?” My Lady turned to him. “You did not tell me.”
“I have been too angry to talk about it. And all for a woman.”
The Queen blinked.
“He should have come to me first,” the King said. “It is not his place to put aside any honors I give to him.”
The Queen’s voice was faint. “Who is the lady?”
“María de Mendoza, the niece of the duke.”
The Queen swayed.
“She is just a foolish young thing.” The King shook his head. “She threw herself at Juan when he stayed with her Uncle at Easter.”
Don Carlos, his heavy gold necklace clinking against his black gorget, loped into the chamber with Don Alessandro. “We came to pay our respects before the reception.” His brow puckered. “My Lady? Are you well?”
The Queen put the back of her hand to her nose. When she brought it away, it was bright with blood.
“Elisabeth? Elisabeth!” the King cried, just before the Queen slumped to the floor.
The Third Notebook
ITEM: A drink distilled from the tears and the heart bones of a stag is a cure for troubles of the heart.
26 SEPTEMBER 1564
El Alcázar, Madrid
She lost the baby. It is whispered about Madrid that it was due to her jealousy of doña Eufrasia, that seeing the King’s newly wed mistress so wondrously advanced in pregnancy made her lose her own child in a fit of jealousy. Although the King denied repeatedly that doña Eufrasia’s child was his—he claimed to have ended his affair with her long before he had her married to the Prince of Ascoli—his protests were received with a wink by Madrileños high and low. What man in his right mind would turn away the dark-haired and delicious doña Eufrasia if he had a chance at bedding her? Certainly a Queen must be chaste—oh, she must be perfectly so—but a King? He was less of a man if he didn’t stray. All agreed there was no reason for the King to deny himself the pleasure of keeping a mistress and a wife. The Queen, for her part, should have Understood that. It was so needless, all whispered, for Her Majesty to lose the King’s heir this way. Especially a king who could choose any lady in the world.
Few knew how close she had come to losing her own life. For three hours after she had fainted, she had remained unconscious. Only an emergency blood-letting revived her. When at last she came to, her will to speak had left her. She lay on her bed, oblivious to our exclamations as she stared into the distance.
“Do not worry, my darling, we will have other children,” I heard the King whisper to her, the morning after her miscarriage. I was removing her untouched cup of bread soaked in wine. He kissed her pale brow. “Just get better, my pet.”
She gave a shuddering sigh, then closed her eyes.
Doctor Hernández was called. Although the King wondered if there might be a miracle herb from the
New World that would help the Queen, doctor Hernández would not risk it. Instead, he continued to listen to her pulse music, then to bleed her, drawing out her bad humors to allow in the good. And though I winced to see him nick her wrists with his lancet and then catch her youth’s bright blood in a white dish, I prayed that this would restore her. For my part, I spooned broth into her mouth and bathed her face and wrists with Hungary water, as priests led the other ladies in endless rounds of the Rosary. But priests, doctors, ladies—the results of all of our ministrations remained the same. We were losing her.
And then one afternoon, nearly four weeks after she fell, as I sponged My Lady’s neck while rosary beads clicked and her ladies murmured in prayer, Cher-Ami rose from where he lay at the foot of the bed, head on paws. His mistress struggled against her covers, then sat Up.
“J’ai faim.”
The condesa’s fingers froze on the first bead of the third decade. “What did you say, Your Majesty?”
The Queen smiled shakily. “I am hungry.”
Madame de Clermont whispered a prayer of thanks as her beads fell to her skirts. “You! Boy!” she shouted at a page. “Bring a compote of fruit and a crêpe, cooked in the French style!”
The boy blinked at the Queen who had lain senseless these many weeks.
“What are you waiting for?” cried madame. “Go!”
The King was summoned. He broke from a meeting with his counselor to the Netherlands and appeared immediately.
“Everyone, out!” he cried, striding to her side.
The Queen reached toward me. “Let Sofi stay.”
He nodded, then eased down on the bed as the ladies, priests, and pages filed from the room. “My pet.” He held her face in his hands, his own countenance crumpled with emotion. “I have been so worried.”
“I wish to leave Madrid.”
Her first words to him in four weeks.
“Of course. When you are strong enough.”
“Now. I wish to leave now. I will gain strength away from here.”
He kissed her hand. “Then we shall go—to the Woods of Segovia, I think. It is beautiful there, and the air is healthful. But you must eat first, and get better.”
Her eyes shone with tears. “My Lord—I am sorry I lost the baby.”
“Shhh, pet.” He laid her hand against his chest.
“My Lord, I have been Unable to speak, but I was not deaf. I have heard what people whisper about you. About doña Eufrasia.”
His brow creased with anger. “The Prince of Ascoli should not have brought his wife here in such a state. To Upset you—”
She touched his beard. “I do not believe them. I know you have been true to me.”
He pulled away. “I did not know she was with child. No one had told me. I am King, and no one had told me.”
“I am sorry I lost our child.”
“She should not have come.” He rubbed his beard, then lowered his fist Upon his knee. “Well, what is done is done, and nothing can change it.”
There was a tap on the door. The King signaled for me to get it. I let in madame, who swept over to the bed, her exposed eyes bright with happiness. “Excusez-moi, but My Lady, here is your compote.” She held forth a silver dish.
The King took it from madame. “The sooner you gain your strength, my pet,” he said to the Queen, “the sooner we can get you in a litter to Valsaín.” He held Up the full spoon.
“I shall eat like a pig,” she said, then opened her mouth.
ITEM: A certain nobleman was so smitten by Julius Caesar’s wife, Pompeia, that this gentleman dressed like a woman and sneaked into her home while Julius Caesar was away. The man was discovered before reaching Pompeia; a trial was ordered to prove her innocence in the matter. But even though she was cleared, Julius Caesar divorced her. “The wife of Caesar,” he said, “must be above suspicion.”
ITEM : “ There are those who would spend much time on a picture’s background. Yet if one throws a sponge full of colors at a wall, it would leave a patch in which one might see a beautiful landscape.”
—MAESTRO SANDRO BOTTICELLI
5 OCTOBER 1564
Valsaín, the House in the Woods of Segovia
The King kept his promise. Within a week we were wending our way through the silent rocky passes of the Guadarramas, eagles wheeling in the stark blue sky above Us. Streams splashed violently over the boulders along the side of the trail as our mules strained against their harnesses, their necks blackening with sweat. Inside our litter, wrapped in light furs, the Queen and I played endless rounds of cards when she was not resting or chatting with the King, who plodded beside Us on his black charger. Behind Us, the condesa and madame de Clermont joggled along mutely in their litter, followed by a train of wagons that snaked along the windswept road cut over the mountaintops in times long past. Roman soldiers had made this road, at the bidding of Julius Caesar. Now the man who rules lands more widespread than those of Julius Caesar leaned from his horse to extend his gloved hand to his lady. She blew him a kiss, then trumped my ace in our game of Triumph.
On we traveled in this way, with overnight rests at Royal hunting lodges, Until at last we descended into the valley of woodlands and river-crossed meadows that leads to Segovia. In this valley is nestled the House in the Woods—Valsaín.
Ah, Valsaín, my favorite of the King’s palaces. While its rows of balconied windows against warm brick, its tall wooden spires, and its courtyards planted with fruit trees and herb knots do delight the eye, it is the surrounding woods and mountain meadows that enchant me. Here the brushy boughs of the piños de Valsaín sigh in the wind as if contented, and tuft-eared squirrels scrabble Up the trunks of the stately trees. Birdsong brightens the brisk piney air. It is just the place for a person to regain her health. And so the Queen recovers hers, slowly but steadily.
She was napping this afternoon when I stole into the woods. A book pressed to my breast, I walked along the grassy banks of the River Eresma, its shallow waters babbling companionably from its stony bed. I had in mind to read, but after four long weeks shut Up in Her Majesty’s chamber, I could do nothing but drink in Nature. With each step that I sank into the spongy green turf tunneled by hidden moles, with each touch of the lichen-splotched rocks that held the cool of the mountain winds within them, with each trill of the warblers flitting through the trees, my black cloak of melancholy slipped from my shoulders just a little bit more. I could almost feel my humors balancing within me.
I wished to paint.
In the week since the Queen awakened from her illness, she has kept me by her side at all times, having me read Latin or pick out the stitches she has done wrong in her embroidery or humor her with silly drawings. And while we enjoy each other’s company well enough, I notice the effect my constant attendance has Upon the King. He cannot have a moment alone with her, and in this manner could not have claimed his conjugal rights even if doctor Hernández had approved of it. It is as if the Queen has taken to Using me as a shield between herself and the King.
But at that moment, as I savored the breath of the wind in my hair and the freedom to wonder what subject I might paint, a soft bleating came to my ears. Stilling my skirts, I eased toward the brushy cove from which it came. Slowly, carefully, I parted the tall grass. There, nibbling on the bark of a small tree was a doe, suckling her two half-grown fawns.
I grinned. Greedy fawns. They banged their heads at her bag and tugged at her teats as if each was afraid the other would get its share. How they reminded me of my own sisters when young, grabbing at Papà when he would bring home a new book from his shop.
“They are brothers now, but when they’ve grown, they will fight each other to the death.”
I turned with a start, sending the doe fleeing into the forest, the fawns sailing behind her. Doctor Debruyne stood behind me, an empty basket on his arm.
Fire leapt into my face. “You frightened me.”
He flashed me that disconcertingly friendly smile. “I apologize.
Forgive me, juffrouw.” He bowed and turned to go.
I know that he must have thought me foolish, plain, and bold, but I found that I could not let him leave.
“Will they really fight each other?” I called.
He stopped, then turned around.
I swallowed. “Brothers would fight to the death?”
He crossed his arms and considered me more closely. “If they want the same doe, they will. Forgive me, it was a dark thing for me to say when you were trying to enjoy them.”
“No. I am always interested in—in nature.”
A crow called. Doctor Debruyne cleared his throat, trying to decide how to extricate himself, no doubt.
“Were you thinking of sketching the deer?” He nodded at the book in my arms.
“It ’s not a sketchbook. It ’s the Queen’s. Aramis of Gaul.”
“Reading about knights and ladies, are you? I had not pegged you as a damsel who swooned for romance.”
There was no Use in pretending I was a fair flower of femininity. “I’m not. But there were no treatises on painting or medicine about.” I frowned at the gilt leather cover of the book, while suffering from the disconcerting sensation that doctor Debruyne was studying me.
After a moment, he said, “You must wonder what I am doing out here in the middle of the forest.”
“No! I wasn’t.”
He pulled back his chin.
“I assumed you were here conducting your experiments,” I said staunchly.
“And you would be correct.” He raised his arm with the basket. “I have resumed my role as root granny.”
I gazed toward the basket, only to catch sight of the silky dark hair peeking from the opening of his Untied white shirt. Sweetest Holy Mary.
“The King has asked me to start a new garden here at Valsaín,” he said, “with specimens from the mountains of the Andes, brought Up from Sevilla. His Majesty thinks the elevation and temperature here might more closely duplicate the conditions of the Andes than those of Aranjuez—quite forward-thinking on his part. Our King knows much about much Under the sun.”