Juana la Loca

by Linda Carlino

  ‘My mother, Queen Isabel, gave her daughters the same broad education as her son that they might stand shoulder to shoulder with any man.’

  ‘Precisely; therein lies another of your problems I am trying to rid you of. You do not know your place. Queen Isabel, let me inform you, would have made a very poor monarch but for your father, King Ferdinand.’

  ‘The grandees should be here to witness this arrogance.’

  ‘Far from anyone coming here Denia announced, every inch of his mean frame exuding authority, ‘I have decided it best that you are moved to a more remote and secure place. The fortress at Arévalo is my preferred option. There would be no gossiping townsfolk and it is decidedly more difficult for prying visitors to find their way there. I have informed the king of my intentions and hold everything in readiness for our departure.’

  Juana swallowed hard but it didn’t help. She had maintained her composure throughout but now it deserted her completely. Starting with a chuckle which grew to unrestrained laughter, she reached for the hands of Catalina and the priest and spluttered, ‘This is such a delicious oversight on his part. This power-crazy fool so full of his own importance forgets that it is only in Tordesillas where he is in charge and everything is kept secret; locked inside the town walls, behind palace doors. Once outside the town of Tordesillas I would be in Castile, where he has no jurisdiction whatsoever! Thank you Denia, I think I would like that very much.’

  ‘Damn you!’

  Chapter 47

  During the next three years Juana’s gaoler nursed his fury that his plans to leave Tordesillas had come to nought, and he made her life more miserable than ever.

  She was standing over a small domed casket of inlaid ivory she had brought from her treasury, a seldom visited dusty storeroom leading off from her bedchamber: a room of caskets, chests and coffers filled with jewels and gold and silver plate; of rolled up tapestries piled high; of bolts of exquisite velvets, brocades, satins, and silks; of trunks packed with every shape and size of furs: ermine, fox, squirrel, marten.

  ‘Here boy, put those things down and come here. I need help with this.’ The particular jewellery box she had sought out now stood on its own on the table, its contents awaiting inspection.

  The young chamber boy looked about him for a suitable place to set down the silver ewer and basin brought for her retiring room, wishing he could have passed through the room without Juana noticing. He turned this way and that, consumed by indecision, still hoping he would be allowed to continue with his errand.

  ‘My lady?’ ‘Open this box for me; my fingers are too stiff to turn the key.’

  He panicked; his face colouring. He stammered ‘My lady, it is not my place. Shall I tell the treasurer he is needed?’

  ‘No, you shall not tell the treasurer anything of the sort. You will open the box.’

  The lad’s face was crimson; he wiped his shaking, sweating hands up and down the front of his tunic, he knew he faced a whipping if Denia were to discover him doing something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Good God, boy, I would hate to have to rely on you in an emergency and you standing like marble scared to death because it might be someone else’s job! Grasp the key, and turn it in the lock; a simple enough task.’

  Juana would have done it herself but dared not. She still found it strange that almost two years should have elapsed before she was plagued by recurring images giving her no peace: the marquesa’s “borrowed” rings and bracelets, the diamond buttons stitched on to a dog’s collar. So, to rid herself of her suspicions, she had brought the jewellery box here that she could check the contents to convince herself that all was well; having done that she would return it to the storeroom.

  There was a click, and the chamber boy scurried away to the ewer and basin, relieved his work was done; and just in time. He prayed he had not been observed; he didn’t want any trouble.

  ‘What have we here?’ Denia’s voice, thin and needle sharp, pierced the air. ‘You boy, you know you are not allowed …’

  ‘He is when I say so. In any case I have no further need of him, so he may go. Do I read consternation in your face or something more sinister?’

  ‘Neither,’ he replied. ‘His majesty will summon you within the half hour.’

  ‘Charles is here? Why was I not told? So, he has finally decided to grace us with his presence.’

  Denia ignored her. ‘These ladies are here to assist you.’

  Two of Denia’s daughters with their accompanying maids stepped forward.

  ‘Do you know, Denia, I had actually forgotten that you have found positions for all your family; most enterprising of you. I shall be interested to discover which of my jewels they suggest I wear inasmuch as they have had personal experience as to their suitability for different occasions.’ Juana’s fingers idly traced the decorated lid as she and the daughters exchanged glances of mutual loathing. ‘There is very little that escapes my notice. Go find me my best grey dress. Goodness me, how long has it been since I gave an order; I quite like it. I will need warm water. Off you all go.’

  King Charles sat on his canopied throne in the Grand Salon. He was impatient, twisting and turning the rings on his fingers then playing with the short hair that curled about his ears. It was a new hairstyle recommended by his doctors as a cure for his insufferable migraines, a short style tapered at the neck and sides and exposing the ears. It seemed to be helping and it was certainly proving very popular, most men deciding to follow his lead, setting a new fashion.

  After an interminable wait two priests were announced. ‘The General of the Dominican Order, my lord, and the General of the Franciscan Order.’ Charles glanced up at them as they entered; the first robed in black and white cradling a sheaf of papers close to his chest, the second in grey his arms lost in the generous sleeves of his habit.

  ‘You look wearied, my lord? I pray we do not find you unwell,’ the Dominican remarked.

  ‘Financial burdens are both irritating and exhausting, Father, as are other matters until they are resolved; so, to business.’

  The Dominican priest began ordering his papers, shaking his head, sighing ayes of frustration as he arranged and rearranged an assortment of letters and notes.

  Charles watched, anxiously stroking his recently grown beard that helped disguise the unfortunate Hapsburg chin and lent him an air of maturity and experience. ‘I am waiting.’

  ‘I have investigated the case thoroughly for months and my conclusion is that Princess Catalina is at liberty in her conscience to marry whomsoever you choose.’

  ‘You are certain of this? There must be no doubts whatsoever.’

  ‘This betrothal to the Duke of Saxony has been annulled.’ He proffered one of the papers but it was waved aside. ‘And as for the other marriage contract with the Marquis of Brandenburg, it is not legally binding because the princess had no knowledge of the facts, was unaware of …’ He fussed with a number of other papers, hesitating.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The marqués and marquesa had her sign the articles without allowing her to read them. She therefore had no idea that she was putting her name to a marriage contract.’

  ‘She knew nothing of it?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, and she is therefore free to obey your majesty with regard to the contract with Portugal. All the statements and necessary documents are here. To my mind the greater difficulty lies in getting her to leave her mother.’

  ‘That is not a difficulty, she will do as I command,’ Charles growled.

  ‘And Queen Juana? This demands some careful thought. The parting must be done gently; and if I may suggest, with the consent of the Cortes.’

  Charles leaned forward, thrusting out the neatly trimmed beard, ‘It is essential we keep all information regarding the queen out of the public domain. If we are to maintain peace and stability the nation must be responsible to me alone. I will not allow her to be the subject of open discussion in the Cortes; to even mention her name could stir …�
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  ‘With respect, my lord, if you have the consent of the Cortes, you have the consent of all Castile. Then should the worst happen, for example the shock of Catalina’s departure endangering the life of the queen, you are blameless.’

  ‘A good point; and I see no reason why the Cortes should not welcome this marriage; after all John of Portugal is the grandson of Isabel and Ferdinand.’

  ‘It demonstrates your desire to strengthen the bonds between the two countries. Further, might I advise you to have the Cortes meet in Valladolid; its proximity to Tordesillas and the queen would add to a sense of openness?’

  Charles smiled his satisfaction. ‘Good, good. I thank God this can all be dealt with immediately. I am most grateful for your diligence.’

  ‘On a lighter subject; I have a letter here. Would it please you to read it?’

  ‘What is it?’ He read aloud, ‘I kiss your majesty's hands. If you remember we met recently in Burgos and it was then that I asked your permission to return to Tordesillas to see the Princess Catalina before she leaves for Portugal. I respectfully repeat my request. Who is this? Ah, I should have known; Brother Juan de Avila, a meddling priest if ever there was one. I will not have him anywhere near.’

  He took the letter to the fire and lit one corner of it, watching as the hungry flame greedily devoured the pleadings of Brother Juan. He dropped the charred remains into the fire, rubbed his hands and returned to his chair. ‘Send for the Princess Catalina.’

  Catalina and Leonor, the youngest and eldest of his four sisters, equalled one another in grace and beauty, but there all similarities ended. Catalina, now eighteen and quite grown up was radiant in her blue velvets. Leonor, twenty-six and widowed, wore black.

  Charles studied his sisters; they would both make beautiful brides.

  ‘Draw close, Catalina. You wrote me several letters of complaint. I wonder if you would remind us of their nature.’

  His abruptness and coldness shocked; Catalina was taken aback. She had not expected to be interrogated like this, had never considered this as the reason for the audience. Leonor had hinted at the possibility of hearing exciting news from their brother, hence his unexpected presence in Tordesillas.

  ‘Sir, do you doubt my word?’

  ‘The marqués spoke with justification when he said he thought you forward.’

  Leonor was surprised but delighted that her sister should be so outspoken with her brother, if only she herself dared.

  Catalina bobbed a curtsey, ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I do not seek to anger you, far from it. As I told you in my letters mother and I were suffering many indignities and I wrote to you seeking your support. My lord it is you and you alone who has the power to set things to rights. If you choose not to then mother and I are lost.’

  ‘Such drama! Do you not suppose that I might find your tales somewhat exaggerated?’

  ‘I must risk that in telling the truth.’

  ‘Oh, we urge you always to speak the truth, do we not, Holy Fathers?’

  His sarcasm stung. Catalina was hurt and angry that he should mock her earnest words. ‘I wrote telling you how I had nothing that was mine; that clothing and jewels taken from my mother were not for my use but for the satisfaction of others. I told of my mother not being allowed to use the rooms of the palace because it would upset the marqués and his family, who view this as their own home. I spoke of being treated without respect as though I were no more than a servant …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he snapped impatiently at her revelations, wishing now that he hadn’t encouraged her to speak. The priests were obviously intrigued and Leonor was not disguising her eagerness for more details.

  ‘But this has all changed, has it not, Catalina?’ Charles smiled, anticipating the disclosure of the hugely increased allowance he had sent her.

  ‘Things have certainly changed. Matters have worsened. The admiral’s wife, my great aunt, was my friend and confidante; and sometimes I wrote to her. That has been stopped. These days I have guards about me watching and the marquesa searching me for my letters; the names of those to whom I do speak or give letters are reported to the marqués. And then my darling nurse, the nurse I have loved all my life, was suddenly dismissed. I am not allowed to speak to my mother or her servants. Sir, I have no one to share my confidences; even my confessor Brother Juan de Avila has been sent away. The marquesa and her daughters walk into my rooms unannounced whenever they please. I hear that if my mother grows close to any of her servants then the marqués …’

  He would hear no more from this outspoken young madam, the revelations were embarrassing. He applauded, ‘A wonderful performance, Catalina, yet here you are looking from head to toe a veritable princess.’

  She made to explain but he would finish, ‘In the near future there will be great changes for you.’

  ‘Mother and I will be forever grateful.’

  ‘Speaking of our mother, does she attend to her religious devotions?’

  He sat forward, one elbow resting on the arm of his throne, the bearded chin of authority wedged between thumb and forefinger. He was ready to examine the young witness before him.

  The priests and Leonor had to make a swift adjustment to this new subject.

  Catalina swallowed hard, ‘That is a very difficult question to answer. Situations can be complicated and so affect our desire to do what is required of us,’ she looked nervously at her brother and the priests. What did they want of her? ‘When Brother Juan was here mother always confessed. Yes, she confessed and would sometimes attend Mass. But Denia dismissed him.’

  ‘You say that sometimes she would attend Mass. Does that mean there were times when she could not or that she would not?’

  She hesitated, fearful of giving the wrong impression; and if he wanted these questions answered, why did he not ask their mother? ‘It is all very complicated. First, as I said in my letter, the marqués would often insist that mother attend Mass in her own apartments, not allowing her to participate with other celebrants in the palace. That made her very angry, and then, and then …’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘That was when she refused to hear Mass. I cannot explain! This is all so unfair!’ She looked in desperation to the others. But there was something positive she could mention in her mother’s defence. ‘Mother has always been a great benefactress to the Franciscans and the Little Grey Sisters of Santa Clara. She often dresses in a simple grey dress, spending hours in private devotion, to come close to their way of life. What more can I say?’

  ‘I have heard enough.’ It was now Charles’s turn to look anxiously in the direction of the priests. What they had all heard suggested heresy: no confession, no Mass, dressing like a nun. Was his mother a heretic? If so and nothing was done about it, then every one of her family’s souls would be dragged down alongside hers to perdition, and that included his.

  Juana was sent for. The priests muttered earnest, priestly whispers to each other.

  Chapter 48

  They waited and waited for Juana, the delay weighing heavy over them all. Catalina and Leonor talked of this and that, neither interested in what the other had to say. Catalina feared the worst, almost ill with worry, trying to remember exactly what she had said about her mother and just how damning it may have sounded. Leonor still guarded her happy secret, her good news, but was anxious that it might be forgotten again should Charles continue this religion nonsense with their mother; it was obviously all a misunderstanding.

  The priests solemnly discussed the many problems of heresy that beset Spain and much of Europe, frequently casting glances towards the empty doorway where Juana of the errant soul still failed to appear.

  Charles leaned back to rest his head and close his eyes. He had two important considerations on his mind, each one outweighing the other in turn: his plans for his family and the pressing need to restore his mother to the paths of righteousness. Which should be dealt with first? The priests would be impatient to see with what degree of rigour h
e would address Juana’s serious lapses. But how would he then turn from that to the equally important family matters?

  At last Juana’s arrival was announced and the dreaded confrontation could be played out.

  The priests bowed their heads, Catalina and Leonor curtsied, Charles resumed his regal pose.

  The lady they watched as she made her way across the room bore no relation to a royal figure, and looked as unlike a mother as any woman could. The lines on her face were a record of pain and conflict. The mouth was turned down in a tight curve of bitterness. Strands of straw coloured hair had escaped her hood and veil to lie in lustreless tangles on her shoulders. A tired grey velvet dress reflected the creeping age of its forty-five years old owner. She was an old lady, a stranger, a nuisance.

  Juana planted herself before her son, rigid with determination. Her chin thrust forward, her eyes and mouth narrowed in anger.

  This was going to be more difficult than Charles had supposed. Juana looked defiant. He tried to clear away his unease with a sharp cough; to shake off his embarrassment by rearranging his short red velvet gown. After some hesitation he stepped down from the dais to greet her.

  ‘Dearest mother, how good to see you.’

  ‘Not so fast, Charles; dearest mother, indeed!’ In a thin voice trembling with rage she began, ‘Let me remind you of the time you allowed your friends to steal away my darling Catalina. Oh yes, I know you had her returned but only after causing me great pain.’ She raced on, ‘Let me also remind you that you have stolen my kingdom and left me here a prisoner of the evil Denia.’ She turned towards the door where her gaoler hovered with his daughters, the “ladies-in-waiting”.

  Charles was about to speak but she silenced him, she must finish. ‘Please do me the courtesy of not attempting to deny it; do not even begin to make excuses. So I am cast aside, an unwanted encumbrance. So be it. But now this,’ she beckoned for the small casket. ‘Tell me, Charles; tell me, your own mother,’ she stabbed at her breast, ‘why you have ransacked my apartments!’