Reign of Madness

by Lynn Cullen

  No horses were along the river there, for a reason. As soon as we were in the water, the bottom dropped away. My mule, foundering, panicked.

  I clung to the flailing animal. Shouts rose from the shore. When I turned to look, my pillion slid sideways, plunging me into the river.

  Knives of water shot up my nose. My ears throbbed with the hollow swoosh of the mule’s thrashing, and my own. I heard my burbled underwater cries. My leg was pinned against the belly of the mule, trapped between the planchette and the pillion. I writhed against my heavy tangle of skirts, clawing at the mule, the planchette, my leg. My lungs screamed for air.

  A hard thud above my ear blackened my vision. My head roared with pain. I gazed up through the arm’s length of river between me and life, my breath gone.

  It was over.

  Relaxed now, I watched as filmy rays of sunshine glided through my watery ceiling. A rainbow shimmered just beyond, soothing me with its hazy colors. Scenes from my life washed over me in calming waves: María and Catalina making faces to get me to laugh. María and I clutching each other with joy when Papa told us we had a baby sister. Baby Catalina holding my finger in her infant’s grasp, her tiny nails as thin and pink as rose petals. Mother, tenderly pressing my head to her breast. I could hear the beating of her heart.

  The soft colors of the rainbow whitened into brilliant light.

  A hand clamped on to my ankle. Water whooshed in my ears as I felt my leg being freed of the saddle. A jab to my back punched me clear of the water.

  I was so startled to be torn from the light that it took me a moment to breathe. Someone was tugging me toward the shore.

  I blinked at the otter-wet head next to me.

  “Swim!” ordered Diego Colón.

  5.

  2 April anno Domini 1494

  Quick! Juana!” María whispered. “Don Diego looks at you.”

  “Oh!” Catalina tapped her fingertips together in a frenzy of delight. “Look back at him!”

  With effort, I left my foggy limbo and gazed across the hall, loud with the sound of spoons scraping bowls, goblets clinking against plates, dogs snuffling undertable, and bows sawing on the melodious strings of viol and vihuela. At Juan’s table, Diego Colón met my gaze, then glanced away. He lifted a piece of bread to his mouth.

  A vision of his water-slickened head flashed through my mind. I felt awed that he should try to save me, and grateful, yet strangely numb. I had long since been dried, clothed, and promptly sent to bed with a hot-water bottle, upon reaching our castle of La Mota at Medina del Campo the previous day. This evening, I was rested and newly clothed in festive crimson for a banquet given by the merchants of the town to honor Mother and Papa. Still, the sensation of having my life spill out before me played across my mind. Though I had not passed all the way over, I had not yet passed all the way back.

  “He saved you,” said María. “Everyone is talking about it. He ran down the bank, jumped into the river with his boots on, and pulled you from that mule.”

  “We think he loves you,” Catalina pronounced.

  “Do you love him?” María demanded.

  I gazed at their expectant faces.

  “No.”

  I speared a mouthful of the dish set before me. The garlicky taste of partridge browned in butter brought me a step further into this world. In my lap, Estrella nosed forward in hope of getting a handout, then ducked back when María reached over me to take a pinch of salt from the cellar. My sister’s scent pricked further through my state of numbness: I smelled the distinct sweet tang of orange peel and honey.

  “Are you wearing perfume?” I asked.

  “Do you like it?” María grinned. “Aixa gave it to me.”

  Catalina put out her wrist to me. “She gave me some, too. Smell.”

  “Don’t take anything from her!”

  Both girls pulled back in surprise. “Why?”

  “Just … don’t.”

  I searched the hall for Aixa. She was at the head table, removed from Mother only by my older sister. Papa, at Mother’s right, was immersed in a good-natured discussion with Cardinal Mendoza. He smiled when he noticed me looking.

  I looked away. How could he live with himself?

  I finished my dinner, and then, when a dance commenced, begged off by professing my lingering weakness. Dances were rare at Mother’s court since the attempt on Papa’s life, and therefore were much cherished by the young. I remained at table, feeding crusty bits of bread to Estrella as my sisters clattered off in search of partners. Soon Aixa was performing the steps of a saltarello with her partner, the Marquis of Santander. Her languidly graceful movements infuriated me. Did Mother not realize that Aixa’s conquest of Papa was her revenge against Mother for vanquishing her father the Moorish king? Why would Mother allow it?

  I was smoldering with disgust when I noticed the Indio, Juanito, making his way across the hall toward me, Diego Colón a short distance behind him.

  I gathered up Estrella in a panic. What would I say to them? Though I had seen Diego from afar in Juan’s court, we had not spoken for almost a year, since our awkward encounter at the kennels. I had not even been able to thank him when he had hauled me from the river. He had fled upon heaving me onshore, leaving me to the ladies and gentlemen who rushed to my side.

  Juanito dropped to his knees before me. “I am happy that Your Highness is live today.”

  I smiled with surprise. “Thank you. You speak well now, señor.”

  Juanito looked up. “Yes. I have good teacher.”

  I hazarded a glance at don Diego. “You taught him?”

  “It came to my attention, once, that he might learn.”

  Our gazes met. His narrow face had grown more angular, his expression more grave, his gray-green gaze more searching. He was, I admitted to myself, unnervingly handsome.

  Hostias, I was turning into María.

  Juanito sprang to his feet. “He show me to ride, My Lady. Horses.”

  “Did he?” I said.

  Diego gave a small shrug.

  Juanito reached out to Estrella, who drummed me with her tail. “I ride mules, ponies, anything,” he said. “You should see.”

  “I’d like to,” I said warmly. “Very much.”

  “Her Highness must be occupied now,” said Diego. He touched Juanito’s arm. “We should go.”

  “Don Diego,” I said.

  He paused.

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  “I was glad to.” He turned to leave.

  I did not wish him to go. “I hear my mother has given you a length of golden cloth. I am sorry the reward was not greater.”

  He halted. The offended look on his face took me by surprise. “That is not why I did it,” he said coldly.

  “I did not mean—”

  “I am sorry to have given you the impression that my care was for the reward.”

  “That was not my impression!” He had said once that he dreamed of being rich, but I did not think of that. “I was only thanking you.”

  “In fact, I tried to give back the cloth, but your brother said that your mother would be insulted. I only wished to help you—my reward was in seeing you safe.”

  “He give me the cloth,” said Juanito. “I make good cloak of it.”

  “There you are!” Plump and pretty doña Magdalena, one of my sister Isabel’s ladies, swept toward us. The tops of her breasts, pressed by her bodice, swelled nearly to her chin. I saw how Juan’s boys kept her in the corner of their sights when they paraded before her in their armor. My little love for her grew littler when she exclaimed, “Are you not going to dance with me?”

  Of course someone else had designs on Diego Colón. Even on the edge of Juan’s crowd, his brooding handsomeness would not be overlooked.

  Doña Magdalena latched on to Juanito’s arm and stroked it as if it were a puppy. “Do you remember the steps that I taught you?”

  “Si, señorita.” Sheepishly, Juanito let himself be led to the danc
e by my sister’s lady. I found myself standing with Diego.

  In strained silence, we watched Juanito anxiously hunch forward as he waited on the first beat, then bend his knees on the second beat, and with lips pressed together in concentration, rise on his toes on the third. He launched into a serviceable saltarello.

  I could bear the silence no longer. “So Juanito dances.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was good of you to teach him. I suppose you’ve had no lack of partners at the feasts my brother gives. I daresay he has feasts nearly every night.”

  He glanced at me as if trying to decipher the meaning of my words. “She taught him.”

  “Doña Magdalena?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, so you see much of Isabel’s ladies?”

  He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “I have heard from my father. He has sent back a fleet with Antonio de Torres. Don Antonio will report to your parents as soon as he has an audience.”

  My heart sank. He could not deny he was romancing one of my sister’s ladies.

  “Father writes to me that he has sent back thirty thousand ducats’ worth of gold, just a little taste of what is coming. The rivers there are full of it.”

  “That is good,” I murmured, crestfallen. Would he not ask me to dance?

  He frowned at me before continuing. “What I wished to say was that he wrote that he still plans, at my request, to return to a certain land where he came across the tracks of lions and griffins, a wondrous place where there was all manner of fruit and flowers. But you should know why I asked him to go back.” He seemed to steel himself. “I asked him to do so because he named the island Juana.”

  I looked away, trying to think why he was telling me this, only to have my gaze fall upon Papa. He was approaching Aixa as the pairs separated to circle around the floor. When he passed her, he touched his fingers to her hand. She gave him a lingering sidelong gaze before elegantly moving on. I scanned the dancers for Mother.

  “I can see that is of little interest to you,” he said.

  The gist of his words sank in. “You asked your father to return because the island was named Juana?”

  He would not speak.

  Gingerly, I asked, “Was it a big island?”

  He frowned. “Very.”

  “Because,” I said, venturing a smile, “I would not want a tiny little island named Juana.”

  “Oh, no. He saved a tiny little island for your sister Isabel.”

  I laughed out loud.

  A smile twitched on his lips, as if he was proud to have amused me.

  “What about you?” I asked, gently now. “Is there an island named for you?”

  “No.” He grew serious again. “There is no need. I shall inherit governorship of them all someday, and the lands that he is yet to discover.”

  “That should make you happy.”

  “Happy? I don’t know if that’s the word. I feel a great weight of responsibility. I want to be a good ruler.”

  “If only Juan thought like that. His mind is completely given to hunts. But I suppose he doesn’t need to think about the craft of kingship—he knows he will never come to the throne. Mother is much too stubborn to die.”

  He blinked as if I had just blasphemed God. “You should know,” he said after a moment, “that I model myself after her.”

  “Holy blessed saints, don’t!”

  “You must not say that,” he said firmly. “She is the most intelligent monarch in the world. She makes hard decisions, and doesn’t flinch when making them, even if it causes her personal pain. I watch her very, very closely.”

  The hair prickled on my arms. “You do?”

  “Yes. I am trying to learn.” He looked at me. “Is something the matter?”

  “Not at all.” I drew a breath. “What would you do if you ruled?”

  “Not if,” he said, “when.”

  “When you rule, then.”

  He glanced as though to see whether I was mocking him. He seemed relieved to find that I was not. Had he no idea how handsome he was?

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  I could not help it. His face was so serious. “Name all your islands Juana.”

  A smile grew in his eyes. “All the new ones, yes, I could do that. I expect there will be many.”

  “Perfect.”

  He laughed. Watching the dancers, he asked, “Do you think that someday, after you have grown tired of seeing your name all over the map, I might name one after my mother?”

  “One. Certainly. If she insists.”

  He smiled sadly. “I fear my mother was not one to insist upon anything.”

  I waited for him to explain.

  “Not even for my father to stay. He left her to pursue his dream and never went back. I have not seen her since I was four.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I say this to you. I speak about it to no one.”

  “I know how that can be.”

  “What is it about you? I trust you.” He touched his fingers to mine. “Thank you.”

  Heat charged through my fingertips as we gazed at our touching hands.

  A page trotted up, startling us. He smirked at Diego before announcing, “Your Highness, Her Sacred Majesty wishes your company.”

  My heart pounded as I waited for the page to leave. “I shall be back,” I told Diego, my voice strange in my ears. “Wait.”

  Mother was sitting on her throne, rubbing her chin in thought. She drew her eyes from the dancers before addressing me.

  “Juana. I saw you standing idly with the Colón boy.”

  Warmth seared my cheeks.

  “Your time would be better spent practicing your steps. I understand they are keen on their dancing in Bruges. It is meet that you can keep up with your husband.”

  “My husband?”

  The keening of the vihuela and viol recommenced, this time accompanied by the rich tootling of a trio of sackbuts. “The portrait we sent was a great success. It seems young Philippe, Archduke of Austria, demands your hand posthaste.”

  “No!”

  “We are still negotiating the terms of your dowry and an acceptable contract has yet to be drawn up, but I trust that his father—now Holy Roman Emperor, you should be glad to hear—will come to an agreement. His son desires you, and the Emperor desires an alliance. Preparations for a union of this exalted nature must begin at once. They could take months to complete.”

  “Does the Archduke know that I am but third in line to the crowns of the Spains?” I said quickly. “Further back than that, once Juan or Isabel has children. I am not such a bargain.”

  Mother laughed.

  “But—I am not to go until I am older. Papa said.”

  Mother pursed her lips. “Your father says many things, as if saying them might make them true.”

  “I will not hear you speak against him!” I cried, surprising even myself. “He is an anvil.”

  She regarded me calmly. “Yes. He is.”

  Why did she not defend herself? Did she not think highly enough of me to take me into her confidence?

  She exhaled an exasperated breath. “They would all be anvils and have us all be mush. I am so weary of the dance of deference that we must do. How often I have thought of this as I ride to yet another council to cajole my nobles into behaving, without my seeming to control them. I do believe that women might be the more powerful sex, with our agility of wits and our endurance. Yet we must not show our dominance to our men. We must act meek and docile. Why should this be?”

  I shook my head. I wanted to return to Diego.

  “I have come to see our relationship with men as being much the same as a horse’s with its master. The horse could crush its rider at any moment, but has been led to believe it cannot do so. For fear of a little pain, it does as it is bidden. And so it continues forth, a noble, strong creature, kicked and spurred into docility by the little man upon it. Why does it accept this?” She stared at me as though I might
have an answer.

  Two of her ladies now returned. “May we get you some chamomile tea for your stomach, Your Majesty?” asked one.

  Mother waved her off.

  “Your Majesty took very little to eat at supper. I thought perhaps—”

  “Doña Micaela, please. I am fine.”

  “Thank you for your advisement,” I said, then curtseyed to Mother and left her to her strange musings so that I might find Diego.

  But he was no longer standing near the dancers. I searched through the thicket of raised arms and swishing perfumed skirts, the whine of the vihuelas and the shuffle of slippers muffling the thumping of my heart. I ran out to the arcade, prompting a guard to raise his halberd against me.

  He bowed when he saw who it was. “May I assist you, Your Highness?”

  Save for the boys carrying dishes to the kitchen, only the rough warbling of frogs disturbed the lush quiet of the evening.

  “No. No. Thank you.”

  The Habsburg Netherlands

  Hans Memling, The Mystic Marriage of Saint Catherine of Alexandria

  6.

  18 October anno Domini 1496

  It was as cold and gray as Judas’s tomb in the Flemish town of Lier. The sickeningly sweet scent of brewing malt filled my nose as my horse clopped over the wooden bridge and into the church square. The place seethed with nobles on brightly caparisoned horses, peasants with their legs wrapped in muddy buskins, and women in winged white linen headdresses. Church bells pealed and trumpets heralded my entrance along with my twelve Spanish ladies, all dressed in as many jewels as their families could afford, save Beatriz, who wore her humble nun’s gray.

  Ahead, in the shadow of the church tower with its thundering bells, a young lord awaited. His mantle of glistening sable, rich chain of gold, and jeweled hat marked him as the most noble of nobles. He held a hooded white gyrfalcon on his red-gloved fist even as he reined his horse sharply, forcing the animal into sidesteps and scattering the gentlemen around him in a move that would have earned a lesser man a cuffing. As it was, the nobles laughed. I could see his strong white teeth as he grinned in return.