by Lynn Cullen
I nodded.
She produced a small utensil from in her girdle. The Flemings, like common folk everywhere, were always prepared for a meal.
I slid the knife under the large red pat of Mother’s seal, then shook open the letter—three sheets.
Dearest Juana,
By now you will have received word from our ambassador about the passing of our angel. I regret that I have not been able to write to you about it sooner, but in addition to keeping vigil for six weeks in my bed, I have been stricken with a strange illness, which has sapped my strength entirely. Indeed, I had been abed when your father and I received word that Juan was ill. It was the day after Isabel’s second wedding. Being the mother of the bride is always exhausting, but that morning, I could not rise. I was wondering how in the world I could endure two more weddings—might we do away with some of the ceremony when María and Catalina are wed?—when a messenger came with a letter. I saw immediately from the way he would not look at me that something was wrong.
The news was worse than I could imagine. It was from our dear new daughter Marguerite, begging me to come posthaste to Salamanca. Juan had taken ill, and though doctors had bled him and purged him with herbs, his temperature continued to rise. She said that Juan had forbidden his men to send word of his illness to me, lest he alarm me when I was so weary. He must have seen what a toll the wedding festivities had taken on me when we had parted at Ávila, I for Alcántara at the Portuguese border, he and Marguerite for Salamanca, where they wished to set up housekeeping. I am mortified that he saw my exhaustion. Am I becoming such an old lady that people must tiptoe around me?
When I told Fernando of Juan’s illness, he would not hear of my going. He said that Marguerite must be exaggerating. He would go see what was the matter; I should rest. And then he waited until I got back into bed before he would leave, which I did very quickly, for I did not want Juan to wait.
For a day I heard nothing. I thought I would go out of my head. Cardinal Cisneros prayed with me all night. And then express couriers came with the message: Juan is holding his own. Juan’s fever has broken. Juan will surely recover.
Then, for two days, nothing more.
Finally, a messenger came. When the Cardinal insisted that he speak, he fell to his knees.
The messenger said that the King was dead.
I thought I must be hearing incorrectly. Fernando had not even been ill.
The messenger sobbed and had to be taken away. Cardinal Cisneros began to pray. I heard Fernando’s name among his words.
I crawled on my knees to my prayer booth. I was in there, twelve hours later, when your father came.
It took me moments to find my voice. I told him I had heard that he was dead. He said, No, my dear, I am alive. Here I am. You have me.
I pulled away from him and asked, How is Juan? What about Juan?
He gathered me to himself, but I strug gled against his arms to see his face.
When I met his eyes, he shook his head.
I hit him. Hard. On the chest. Then again. And again.
When I asked him why he had told me like that, he said that he thought that if I found out he was alive when I believed he was dead, it would weaken the blow about Juan.
I wanted to kill him.
We cried together like babies—your father, for Juan, and for his own loss, and I, for Juan, and for the folly of your father’s thinking. For though your father understands many things, he does not know the relationship between a mother and her child. There was nothing he, or anyone in this world, could ever, ever, do to soften the loss of my angel.
“Mevrouw? More hot water?”
“Yes, please.” I swiped at my tears with my wet hand and read on.
Marguerite is pregnant. We look forward to the child’s birth. He might be the new Prince of Asturias, though he will never be Juan.
All I have of Juan now is his dog, Bruto. You must remember Bruto—the shaggy yellow cur that he insisted on keeping. He sleeps at my feet now, with your little Estrella. They have become playmates—though your Estrella is poor at sharing. She is fierce for such a little thing. I suppose that is the way of the world—the smallest dog barks the loudest.
Outside, the leaves have fallen from the pomegranate trees in the courtyard. They were still green when I had taken to my bed. I feel that I have awakened in a harsh new world, one in which I don’t know the language, the customs, or the climate. Is this how Colón’s Indios feel when they find themselves in the Spains?
I would like to ask how you fare, though I know you will not answer. Why do you not write, Juana? It has been over a year. If you wished to break my heart, you have succeeded. Do you punish me for sending you from the Spains? Someday you will understand why I did, and may not judge me so harshly. Until then, I will pray for your forgiveness, and for the forgiveness of God for my sins, of which there are many.
This 26th day of November, anno Domini 1497,
Your loving mother, Isabel
I let the letter flutter to the floor and then sank in the tub. Had she not received news of my claim to the title of Princes? And she was caring for Estrella? Her kindness confused me. I knew only how to defend myself from her. But how did I begin to have a relationship with this woman? It was like trying to befriend a mountain.
Later, at dinner, my husband said, “You’re looking pale, Puss.” Servants were gathering our plates in preparation for an entertainment between courses. “You haven’t said ten words.”
The Dowager spoke up from my other side. “Perhaps she is pregnant.” She raised her bald brows at Philippe. “If she is with child, she must guard her strength immediately. She must abstain from sweet milk and cheese, must not walk with a full stomach, or take any exercise at a fast pace. She must not walk at midday, or when it is cloudy.”
“Is she pregnant, Grand-mère, or dying?”
She flicked back her veil with a scowl. “Do not mock me, boy. Both conditions will come in their own good time.”
Madame de Hallewin leaned forward from the Dowager’s other side to address me. “Your Grace, I have heard of a physician in Antwerp who can offer an elixir sure to stir a sluggish womb.”
My lady-in-waiting, the aging and bewhiskered doña Eugenia, announced, “In the Spains, we turn to the mercy of Our Lord for our needs. When, after six years, Her Serene Majesty the Queen produced no more live children after the first, she undertook a pilgrimage to the tomb of San Juan de Ortega, outside Burgos. By the following year, she had conceived a son.”
Philippe kissed my shoulder. “It should take you only seventy years to walk to Burgos from here, if you avoid the midday and the clouds.”
The Dowager gave him a warning shake of her finger.
I was saved from explaining the current state of my womb by a troop of dwarfs. To the blast of trumpets, they rolled out a great castle tower, the wheels of the cart that bore it creaking under the massive burden. No sooner had the dwarfs scampered away than men dressed as Saracens clattered in on horses, slashing their scimitars at us as they rode to the castle. Their steeds’ hooves thudding against the rushes, they galloped around the castle and shook their turbaned heads.
The door of the castle fell open. Soldiers in armor dashed out and slew the terrible Saracens, save one. The soldier marched the unfortunate Saracen to our table and presented his sword to Philippe.
“Our enemies are yours to vanquish,” the soldier cried. “Will you save us?”
Philippe, laughing, took the sword. “And here’s where I say my motto, yes?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the soldier whispered.
Philippe waved the sword over his head. “Who shall dare?”
I watched, but my troubled mind was not engaged in it. I had succeeded in breaking my mother’s heart, when all I truly wanted was her respect. The question was not whether I would forgive her, but whether she would ever forgive me. How could I repair the damage I had wrought, when I might not ever see her again?
The Dowage
r nudged me with her arm. “Get up. Your turn.”
I rose, knowing my part in the drama for the evening. And while I had pronounced my motto at other entertainments and jousts, that night, though I was surrounded by hosts of smiling lords and ladies, the words rang true in a different way.
I laid my hand on my husband’s. “I alone.”
15.
13 Mach anno Domini 1498
Philippe and I were in a chamber off the dining hall in
Hendrik’s palace in Brussels, readying for a Carnival entertainment in which we were to play a part. Hands on hips, Philippe turned his chin so that his man could fasten the brooch at his shoulder.
“Come now, Puss. How am I to be a good Julius Caesar when you are such a glum Cleopatra?”
The Dowager Duchess leaned on the arm of madame de Hallewin. “I was Cleopatra once. In a pageant for my birthday.”
I wriggled under the darting hands of my Burgundian ladies, tucking my supplice into my belt, adjusting the circlet around my head, pinching the pleats of my skirt. The ladies hovered like bees at a honeypot, not out of concern for me, but to raise their own importance in the eyes of the court—and some of them, so it seemed to me, in the eyes of my husband. I had not caught Philippe wandering, but a nagging sense of insecurity had again crept into my belly. Not that I had firm evidence of his infidelity. No, all I had was a glimpse of his hand resting overlong on a lady’s neck when he pointed to a duck on a hunt. Or the discovery of a long dark hair upon his collar. Or the sight of a lady turning away sharply when I entered the room in which she and my husband were together. When I had confronted him with these things, he had laughed and called me mad. Was I? I had begun to think it might be so. I felt tired and strange in the head.
“I am not glum.” I put on a toothy smile.
“Puss, please. A snake looks jollier. Is it the letter you received from your mother today? I don’t know why you even bother to read them, as much as they upset you. I hate to see them come.” His brooch now clasped, he motioned for his man to bring him wine. “What did she say this time?”
The Dowager craned her neck forward, whisking her veil from her ear as if to improve her hearing.
I would not tell them about Mother’s worry that she was becoming as hard as a diamond from holding in her grief. She begged for a letter, saying how much it would mean to her now. “She says nothing. She asks why I do not write to her.”
“You haven’t yet?” said Philippe.
The Dowager stiffened, like a fox picking up a scent.
The Viscountess of Furnes, resplendent in a gown of silvered blue, straightened the serpent on my circlet, grinding the band into my scalp. I winced under her heavy touch. “I recently wrote my first letter to her since our wedding. Our letters must have crossed.”
“Your first?” Philippe wiped his mouth and guffawed. “Oho—that’s my Puss! The most powerful woman in the world, and her little daughter won’t take the time to write to her. That must get her goat.”
“That’s not why I haven’t written,” I said, though that was precisely why, at one time. It had been the only power her “little daughter” had over her. Now it shamed me to have taken the coward’s route for so long. What a relief it had been to finally write her, though it had been difficult to think of what to say to vindicate myself. I had ended up telling her exactly what my reasons had been, childish as they were, and begged, sincerely, for her forgiveness. Now I both dreaded and longed for her response.
“I would not write to my father.” Philippe handed his goblet to his man. “But he’d have me killed. Maybe your mother is not so powerful after all. How does she keep her holdings together without a few well-placed murders? It’s the tried-and-true method in some lands.” He shook his head. “Our English cousins. Who is more violent to their kin than they? Grand-mère’s own brother snuffed their other brother. In a barrel of beer, no less.”
“Malmsey,” the Dowager said. “You make it sound so bad.”
Philippe shook his head, grinning. “Grand-mère. To you, nothing is so terrible as long as Englishmen do it.”
“How about the Florentines?” she demanded. “What about Giuliano de’ Medici? He was murdered during Mass by his rivals, with the foreknowledge of the Pope.”
“As for me,” said Philippe, “I’m glad to have Habsburg blood. At least we have the sense to marry into our lands. ‘Let others fight—you, happy Austria, marry.’ ”
“That’s the Habsburgs,” the Dowager said sourly. “So damn happy.”
I picked at my Egyptian-style skirt. I wished Philippe would not harp so gleefully on the fact that his kin married with a keen eye toward financial gain. Our marriage may not have been made as a love match, but at least he could publicly acknowledge that we did love each other now.
“On the other hand,” said Philippe, “Spaniards have ice in their veins. How many relatives did Pedro the Cruel have to kill to keep his crown?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“What was it, fifty years? One hundred? Two? Probably not so long ago that Grand-mère wasn’t toddling around then.”
The Dowager struck at his arm.
Philippe shied out of the way. “At least Juana’s mother didn’t kill her brother’s daughter to take the throne. She just called the girl’s mother a whore and the girl a bastard. A fairly brilliant piece of work, actually. Much less messy than a butt of malmsey.”
The Dowager made as if to chase him. The Burgundian ladies tittered. I would have protested, the reaction he was going for—oh, how he enjoyed trying to provoke me, like a child teasing a cat—but that night I was feeling curiously weak and weepy. I had been feeling thus for days. I attributed it to the excesses of Carnival. How Philippe would laugh and call me truly Spanish if he knew how much I longed for the austerity of Lent. After more than a year in these lands, I still could not eat and drink as they did at this court.
“Nun,” Philippe called to Beatriz, standing behind the Burgundian ladies. “Where is your costume? When are you going to give up that ugly habit?”
The Burgundians turned to watch with interest. But Beatriz was spared from having to answer, as Hendrik’s master of ceremonies hurried into the room.
“Your Graces, it is time to enter the hall. I beg of you to follow me. All others, please, take your places at the banquet.”
Philippe watched the Dowager and my ladies leave, his gaze remaining on Beatriz.
The master of ceremonies bowed and spread forth his hand. “Your Graces, this way, please.”
“Does your mother mention my sister in her letter?” He offered his arm.
In late December, Marguerite had lost her baby, a poor misshapen thing too early for a name. Mother had attached a brief note to her ambassador’s report, its very brevity revealing her pain.
“Not this time.”
“She didn’t say anything to you yet about our taking the title of Princes of Asturias? She must be on her deathbed, as quiet as she has been about it.”
“You must greatly want to be a prince.”
Philippe shifted under his breastplate. “Not really. Though what’s so terribly wrong with it?”
“I fear the titles will not be ours, regardless. Mother reports that my sister Isabel is pregnant.” I winced, hating to speak of such when my own womb was still empty.
“Ah, well, that’s old news. François told me a fortnight ago.”
I nodded. Of course. The Archbishop of Besançon knew everything. For a former tutor, he had risen high at court. Indeed, he was Philippe’s closest counselor. He filled my husband’s ears with state information important and trivial—delivered from a point of view that was always antagonistic to the Spanish. Should I be paying more attention to this?
“Does your mother say when the child is due?” Philippe asked.
“Perhaps the Archbishop could tell us.”
“Puss, sarcasm does not become you.”
I sighed. “August.”
The master
of ceremonies showed us to a barge, ready to be rolled into the banqueting hall by a team of servants dressed as mermen.
Philippe kissed my cheek as we took our places before the costumed oarsmen. “I still love you.”
I glanced at him in alarm. Still?
Later, after we had been rolled into the hall to a roar of approval, and had acted our parts and finished our meal, I found myself, dizzy with drink, at the clavichord in Hendrik’s chamber of state. I was playing a duet with Hendrik himself, to which one of Philippe’s men sang suggestive lyrics, provoking drunken snorts and giggles from the ladies and gentlemen gathered around. No Spanish women were included, save Beatriz, who stood uncomfortably by the clavichord, hands clasped.
“Bravo!” yelled Philippe when we finished.
Our singer slumped to his knees, then onto his chin, before curling into a ball on the floor.
Philippe roared with laughter. Like a man with his tail afire, he made a charge for the tremendous bed Hendrik had constructed in the chamber.
“Everyone!” Philippe jumped on the mattress. “Join in!”
I watched from the clavichord as gentlemen, and ladies, too, scrambled onto the bed. Jewels thumping and brocades flapping, they began to bounce like so many spring lambs. Even the Archbishop of Besançon joined in, of a fashion, standing at the bedside and testing the mattress with his elbow.
“Glorious bed, Hendrik,” said Philippe, jumping highest. He would have it no other way. “I must have one. How many does it hold?”
From next to me on the bench, Hendrik called out, “Fifty. Side by side.” He gave me an apologetic grimace. “It was made to toss gentlemen on when they’ve had too much to drink. I never pictured the ladies joining in.”
“Shortsighted of you,” Philippe roared, somehow able to hear us above the jiggling hilarity surrounding him. The Viscountess of Furnes hopped before him, her pneumatic cheeks dimpled in a grin. She brought him into a contest with her jumps.
Hendrik saw me watching. “You’d better get up there.”
“I think I should vomit,” I said coldly.