She rose from the bench and brushed her sleeves. Maria returned the sewing to its basket before seeking out stray strands from amongst the patterns of Juana’s brocade skirts.
‘A short stroll, ma’am?’
They wandered along the pathway edged with box, a row of white roses beyond. Juana drew their velvet petals towards her to drink in their perfume. ‘The white rose of York. The old witch finally died. Madam la Grande is one less to mock or whisper against me.’
Their skirts brushed over stone flags as they sauntered towards a cluster of red roses clinging to a wall and basking in the sunshine.
‘These are my favourites, ma’am. Such a deep red, so soft to the touch and with a far superior perfume.’
‘The red rose of love; its blood coloured petals at once fiery and velvety soft.’ She cupped one in her hand. ‘The lovely Beatrice will find the note,’ she snapped off its head, ‘I will find her,’ a second head was snapped off, ‘and then we shall see what we shall see.’ The petals were ripped and tossed away.
They retraced their steps to the arbour to wait.
Within minutes Juana heard hurried footsteps. She could see perfectly without needing to move an inch from her concealed vantage point. A young lady ran towards one of the decorative urns set close to a myrtle arch and pushed her hand deep inside, drawing out a folded piece of paper. Juana watched the broad beaming smile of delight as the note was raised to her lips.
‘Dear God in Heaven, You have granted her everything: beauty, a trim figure, pretty hands with slender fingers, tresses of gold, a noble birth; and now my husband.’
Juana looked on, drowning in her anguish, as the note was unfolded, greedily read then tucked inside her bodice. ‘Yes, put it next to the milk-white breasts that Philip knows so well,’ she screamed pouncing on her quarry, roughly snatching the note. ‘I will have that. What does he say?’ Her hands shook, the pulse in her throat strangled, ‘My dearest Beatrice …’
Beatrice tore it from her grasp, hurriedly tore it and pushed the pieces into her mouth.
Juana grappled with her, snarling, ‘Go ahead, I hope you choke. You harlot, how dare you steal my husband. Keep away from him, do you hear?’ She pushed and pulled starting with her clothes then finding her hair.
Somehow Juana got her to the ground and sat astride her. Then her sewing scissors were in her hand. She began to cut and hack at the golden curls ignoring the terrified eyes staring at her and the open mouth unable to utter a sound. The frenzied scissors scratched and tore at flesh as well as hair and blood streamed from each new wound.
Her task completed Juana stood up to consider her work.
‘You may go, baroness, this lesson will serve as a reminder to stay well away from Philip.’
Maria had not moved. She was like stone unable to go to the aid of either lady. She remained as if paralysed as Beatrice struggled to her feet to go stumbling blindly over the flagstones. She stood motionless watching as Juana left the garden as serenely as she would a ballroom floor.
‘Maria, I think it would be marvellous to have one of Zayda’s special baths. The perfumed oils will work their usual magic on Philip.’
Chapter 21
The water was ready and Zayda was adding the first of the oils when Philip arrived accompanied by some friends. He looked with distaste at the slave before going to her collection of phials to send them crashing to the floor.
‘Get out! I am tired of this sorcery. I want you out of the palace, out of Flanders, now!’
Zayda slipped quickly through the group of gentlemen and ladies gathered in the doorway.
Philip turned on Juana, ‘You damned fool. Whatever possessed you? She could so easily have been blinded. The doctors are with her now. For your sake I pray her face will not be scarred permanently,’ he raged. ‘God knows when she will recover from the shock let alone the wounds. You are crazy, can you even begin to think of what you have done?’
This was not how Juana had planned it. She had expected the girl to flee the court, embarrassed, to find a place to hide far away never to return. That, she knew from experience, was what always happened in Spain. Every time her mother discovered one of Ferdinand’s mistresses, the girl was quickly dismissed from the court; offered a palace somewhere far away; found a husband; and the whole business forgotten. Nor had Juana considered the possibility of this woman making the incident public knowledge, or of herself being called upon to account for her actions, Queen Isabel had never been faced with such an obligation. Nevertheless; if she must, she could.
She took a deep breath and began, forcing her words above the deafening noise of her pounding heart, ‘My lord, I would say two things. First, you have changed the rules of the game; you were not supposed to love. You have played me false with this strumpet. Second, she dared to defy me, refusing to give me, Princess Juana, the letter. Naturally I had to punish her.’
‘No hint of sorrow madam? No repentance for your actions?’ he snarled.
‘No, and I wonder you should ask. She got no more than she deserved,’ she replied head held high.
He took her by the shoulders and began shaking her violently, yelling his hatred for her and his love for his mistress.
Her strength, her conviction in the rightness of her actions, her refusal to accept any culpability, was crumbling, ‘I will share your body if I must, but please do not ask me ever to share your heart,’ she pleaded.
‘I tell you now that unless you go and apologise to her immediately, you may forget my having anything whatsoever to do with you ever again.’
‘Never! The little whore got no more than she deserved, and royalty never apologises to harlots,’ she retorted, her courage returned.
He swung his fist into her face. She crumpled to the floor. With a voice still strong and determined she continued, ‘No matter what you do or say, I will not apologise. I will not have any woman try to take what is mine. And let them all be mindful that I would do the same again, or worse, should they dare.’
‘Such fitting behaviour for a queen, you see what I have to tolerate? A wild beast in my home. Well, unless the beast is tamed it will not be permitted any freedom. Take her to her room and lock the door. I will decide who is to be allowed in or out.’
He watched her with undisguised loathing as she rose, wiped the blood from her mouth, stood tall and raised her proud chin.
Philip beckoned to Moxica, ‘Come here my man. I have decided that there is something far more important for you to do than keeping the household accounts. Yes, I think from now on your duty will be to keep a detailed account of this mad woman’s behaviour. It should make good reading in Spain. It will help them make a fair judgement on the mental state of their dear princess, the person they would have inherit the throne.’
Juana wiped more blood from her mouth before taking a long, icy look at Moxica. ‘Ah, the turncoat; I have no doubt you have been longing for just such an opportunity. I know you will carry out the task to perfection. You choose well, Philip, since such a professed enemy of mine will surely lack neither inspiration nor dedication in the words he writes.’
She curtsied to Philip and walked proudly to her chamber.
‘Lock the door, and see it remains locked until such time as I order otherwise. Gentlemen, ladies, you will report any incident, however trivial, to Moxica. That is a command. Now I must get back to Beatrice.’
Chapter 22
On a cool spring morning of 1505 Juana formally received an important delegation from Spain.
‘Your royal highness; Fonseca, Conchillos and Ferreira.’
The three gentlemen came from King Ferdinand with instructions to discuss matters of grave urgency with Juana, and only Juana. He had chosen his emissaries with care, she knew them and would trust them: his personal secretary, Conchillos; Fonseca; and Ferreira, who had escorted her on her return journey to Flanders.
They entered, bowed then knelt one after the other to kiss the hands of their new queen.
Fons
eca under his priestly demeanour carried troubled thoughts of their last encounter in Medina when Juana had threatened him with torture and death once she was queen. ‘Your Highness, Queen Juana of Castile, we come to swear allegiance and to offer our condolences on the death of Her Highness, Queen Isabel.’
‘She died in her beloved town of Medina,’ she looked at him, raising her eyebrows. ‘Not a favourite of ours, perhaps?’ There was lightness in her voice telling him that the incident was to be forgotten and their friendship restored. ‘I said such dreadful things to her, things a daughter should never say to her mother; her last memory of me would be …’
Fonseca interrupted, ‘She fully understood your problems ma'am. And notices received in Spain since your return here increased her sympathies towards you. However, it still remained her fervent prayer that she could rely on you to continue her mission for Spain, to strengthen it, to protect it, to preserve it …’
‘How is my son Prince Ferdinand?’ Juana would hear no more; as far as she was concerned everything had been arranged according to her mother’s will.
‘He is well, and doted upon by his grandfather.’
‘And here come my other children.’
The three little ones moved slowly towards their mother and the important visitors, their steps a mixture of studied dignity, awe and, for the tiniest one, shyness.
Charles, walking with measured step, so proud of all his five years, was dressed in a red velvet tunic, black hose and a black velvet bonnet with an upturned brim. He was every inch a little prince.
His sisters followed. Leonor seven and Isabel almost four were dressed alike in dark blue, but while Leonor walked demurely and quite grown up with her hands resting on the front panel of her dress, her little sister toddled along firmly holding a doll, which should have been left in her room, but instead was half hidden behind her. Tears misted Fonseca's eyes as he watched them. These were the fruit of a stormy marriage, the offspring of a tormented young woman who was the gossip of every court in Europe. Leonor, so gentle, perhaps too serious for her years, Isabel a delight with her plump little cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, her face framed by a white coif; the doll held by its neck and pushed into the folds of her skirt.
He turned back to Charles, the leader of this enchanting group, a young version of Philip including the arrogance. This little fellow would one day be the ruler of all Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, Austria, the Netherlands and more; he might also marry the French princess; and he walked as if fully aware of all the riches and power awaiting him.
When sufficient time had been given for the various expected compliments and by almost too much time pretending to understand the young Charles’ speech, which was virtually incoherent, the children were ushered from the room.
Fonseca asked, ‘Ma'am, why is it that you so often refuse to see your children?’
‘Because I am embarrassed to see them; they know I am a prisoner.’
‘A prisoner? With respect, my lady, you have often sought solace in seclusion, finding peace in the quiet of your chamber.’
‘My only useful strategy, you mean?’ Juana shook her head, ‘No, I am talking about Philip having me placed behind locked doors. I am talking about a guard at the door lest I escape.’
Fonseca, along with most of Europe, knew of Philip's infidelity, of his violence towards her, of confining her to her apartments because of the attack on a lady of the court. He knew the contents of Moxica's infamous diaries diligently despatched to Spain detailing her refusal to eat, change her clothing, sleep in her bed, and flying into rages against those who were her oppressors.
‘But we do not find you a prisoner ma'am. There are no guards at the door.’
‘Very easily explained; because my mother is dead and Philip has seen fit to set me free, to pretend that all is well between us. Without me he cannot inherit, so he has decided that my health is of the utmost importance. He also seeks to show the world that we live in harmony; hence my pregnancy.’
‘It grieves me to hear such bitterness.’
She took his hands and squeezed them reassuringly, ‘Do not be so sad my friend, I am a survivor. Gentlemen, you have other business?’
It had fallen to Conchillos to urge Juana to give her father her unqualified support; in writing. He withdrew a paper from his leather pouch. ‘King Ferdinand has sent me to seek your written support.’
Juana read the letter, ‘I see no problem. The Cortes has already sworn allegiance to my father as governor, stating he may even hold the regency, if necessary until our son Charles has reached his twentieth year.’
‘Unfortunately there are those who are beginning to show dissent. Some of the grandees are still angry about the confiscation of their land.’
‘Land that belonged to the Crown!’
Conchillos hurried on, ‘Be that as it may Philip's envoy is offering to return their lands if they support Philip against Ferdinand. And their number is growing. You will vouch for this Ferreira.’
‘It is true.’
‘How could they be so mercenary? What must I do? There must be no doubting my intentions to have my father rule as regent.’
Conchillos sighed with relief. Juana would comply with Ferdinand’s request, and he would be unequivocally recognised as regent. ‘We need a signed affirmation of King Ferdinand’s regency and a mandate granting him any additional powers he deems necessary.’
‘It shall be done immediately. My father must have the authority to protect the crown and the country for me and for my son. I expect nothing less than the full support of the Cortes.’
She wrote swiftly, the quill scratching her determination vigorously across the page. Conchillos beamed his satisfaction; he sanded the ink then carefully folded the paper and put it deep into his pouch.
Juana was curious, ‘My lord bishop do you not have something to say?’
‘No ma'am, I do not. I am saddened by so many recent events, wearied by so many rumours, sickened by endless politicking. My heart aches for quiet.’
‘And am I to be turned comforter while you are to be comforted?’ She put her hands out towards him.
He knelt to kiss them, ‘Pray God that Spain will soon be at peace with itself.’
‘Amen to that.’
‘We must be on our way,’ Conchillos sounded agitated. ‘The sooner we are gone from here …’
Ferreira tut-tutted, ‘I hope you were not thinking to leave before having an audience with King Philip?’
‘Why no …’ he blustered.
‘King Philip is returning from his hunting trip and should be here later today.’
‘Well then, all the better.’ Juana knew that while haste was important protocol demanded that they have an audience with Philip, so his early return was fortunate. It was odd, nonetheless, that he should cut short his beloved hunting.
Chapter 23
It was early evening when they were informed of Philip’s arrival and told to await him in the small reception salon. Their conversation was awkward, kept alive by Juana describing and explaining the features in the backgrounds of the several portraits of Philip, herself, and the three children. Then she talked of the books in the growing library, of which she was very proud, covering an entire wall, inviting them to look at whatever was of interest be it music, poetry, nature.
Then Philip appeared and walked very slowly towards them leaving guards posted at the door.
Juana’s confidence, already weakening, vanished. ‘Sir, you have returned so soon, I had no idea …’
‘My lady, there are several things about which you have no idea. For example you probably do not realise that I know why these men are here,’ he advanced on Conchillos, ‘and that I know that you are Conchillos, secretary to Ferdinand. I am also reliably informed that you carry on your person a very important letter.’
‘Letter my lord?’
‘Ferreira. Remind him of the letter.’
Juana gazed at Ferreira in disbelief.
�
�My master requires the letter you carry,’ Ferreira held out his hand.
Juana stepped towards him, ‘I would remind you Ferreira that the letter under discussion is mine. Philip, I have written to my father reaffirming the mandate he was given by my mother's will. I also give permission for him to take any additional measures as and when they are needed; my father has my complete trust and support. There is nothing more to be said.’
Philip’s harsh laughter filled the room, ‘Dear God, the famous will. Ferdinand has repeated it often enough to the Cortes, especially that part … if Juana is incapable of understanding how to govern. You see, that and the extracts from Moxica's diary of your bizarre behaviour have done an excellent job of convincing the Cortes that you are indeed totally unfit to rule. You fool, you have written a letter of abdication; duped by your own trusted father into handing him Castile!’
‘You are wrong. I am his daughter and I know he intends nothing more than to keep the country in good order. There are some who would bring it to ruin, and those few dissidents must be defeated; to do so my father requires absolute power and I will provide it.’
‘One or two dissidents?’ Philip snorted. ‘It is quite the reverse. He can only rely on one or two friends. Ferdinand is lost without your support. More importantly we will be lost if you give it. The letter, Conchillos.’
Conchillos unbuckled his pouch and handed over the letter.
‘Burn it, Ferreira. Guards, take Conchillos to the cells; see that he gets the punishment appropriate for traitors.’
Juana watched the flames devouring every word of her royal command.
‘We will not lose Castile,’ Philip grabbed her wrist. ‘I have another letter that you have written to the Cortes.’
Juana looked for Fonseca. She needed his help; she didn’t know what to do. But Fonseca had gone. She hoped he had rushed away, to return to Spain without delay to tell her father what had happened.
That Other Juana Page 13