That Other Juana

by Linda Carlino

  Juana’s Castile was in chaos. It had taken three months of isolation in her sister’s country home where she could grieve privately before she could find the will to pull herself free of her pain and anguish and address the problems that beset her beloved country. At last, following several days of intense consultations with counsellors, she was returning to the city, ready to meet the Cortes convened at her request.

  Within minutes of her arrival at the city gates she was in the courtyard of the Casa del Cordón and two pairs of strong arms were helping her from her litter.

  The stairs up to the gallery were almost too much of a challenge and she fell against Marta and the balustrade.

  ‘I swear this child will be the death of me,’ she gasped.

  This time below her in the courtyard there was no handsome Philip magnificent in mulberry and green about to ride out with his friends, all extravagant peacocks; only a scattering of stable lads and her small guard. But she would not dwell on that, or on Philip’s death, there would be time enough later for all her sorrows. Today she would remain positive, would be deterred by nothing and no one. There were to be no distractions.

  She passed directly to her retiring room where ladies awaited her with a pitcher of steaming water, bowls and towels.

  ‘Marta, I shall take some light refreshment before I meet with the Cortes.’

  The salon chosen for the audience chamber was cold despite the efforts of a fire and several braziers. Her secretary rose as she entered, which she acknowledged with a smile, motioning him to resume his work. ‘Do not let me interrupt you, friend, unless you wish for some time to warm your hands by the fire.’

  ‘I am almost finished, my lady.’

  On the dais a canopied chair looked singularly imposing, she thought, and would definitely assist her in her task. She settled her awkward bulk into its velvet seat.

  Her sister, and Doña Ulloa, a recently arrived lady-in-waiting from the court of King Ferdinand, arranged her black velvet skirts and hood.

  Marta, never very far from her mistress, cast horror-stricken eyes about the room, muttering, ‘It’s a sin, it is. A sin!’

  It was but a few weeks since Philip had held his court here; the walls lined with Flemish tapestries, chests groaning under displays of silver and gold plate. Today there was nothing to gladden the eye or cheer the heart. Cold air issued from every stone of the bare, unadorned walls and moved unchecked about the room furnished with her throne and a simple bench for the bishops of the Cortes. Everything had gone; stolen, pawned, or sent back to Brussels.

  Similar thievery had been taking place throughout Castile. No action had been taken against this and many other wrongs; but Juana could not be held responsible, she had been too ill. However, the situation would not be tolerated a moment longer. Since her recovery she had been tireless in her efforts to begin the process of setting things to rights. Her task was almost done. After today’s meeting she would leave the remaining details in the hands of others; and that included Cisneros.

  She chuckled to herself, delighting in the thoughts of his having to carry out her bidding. There was no doubting he still found her wanting and was moving heaven and earth to have her father govern Castile. But he and the Cortes were about to be surprised.

  The members entered, Juana noting by their faces that here there was uncertainty, while over there curiosity, elsewhere suspicion, and everywhere shock that it was she who had summoned them; and she rejoiced for she had heard the rumours regarding her poor mental state.

  ‘Welcome, my lords and procuradores. Let us proceed. I do not intend to waste your time nor mine. Archbishop Cisneros, do you continue to keep my father informed of events here?’ She knew there wasn’t a day went by that messengers weren’t scurrying to and fro between the two of them.

  He bristled, furious with her for continually refusing to sign a declaration making him regent in the absence of King Ferdinand, causing him unspeakable aggravation.

  He glared at her then addressed the assembly, ‘I do keep King Ferdinand informed, and repeatedly entreat him to return. But a request from his daughter would lend more weight. Is that not true, gentlemen?’

  And he would try that ploy too, Juana thought, ‘No, I think not. I leave that kind of letter writing to others.’ After some very bitter experiences she would never be persuaded to put pen to paper on the subject of regencies, and in any case she had something quite different in mind. ‘But please do emphasise that I am anxious to have him here.’

  Cisneros changed the subject, he knew of another way to wrest the control of Castile from Juana; and with her help. ‘May we turn to the subject of vacancies in the church; there are many sees without their bishops. It is unwise to leave so many sheep without their shepherds.’

  ‘Archbishop, I would not know who to consider, having been absent from this country for so long.’

  ‘That is where I can be of service.’

  ‘And what if I still chose poor shepherds? Think how serious that would be for the sheep.’

  The admiral with a ‘Bless me!’ stroked his beard to hide his amusement. Padilla nudged his fellow procuradores to his left and right.

  Juana waved the archbishop back to his place on the bench, ‘We digress.’ She was determined that there should be no further departure from her agenda. ‘The document, please.’

  Her secretary held an enormous roll of parchment complete with royal seals.

  ‘This edict that I have had drawn up will go far in returning Castile to its former self, to the Castile of Queen Isabel,’ she raised a hand to quell the whisperings. ‘I felt it incumbent upon me to have these Doctors of Law, the most trusted counsellors to Queen Isabel, attest to it. It is a lengthy document, but a necessary one. It states that no office, tenancy, nor church appointments may go to anyone not a Castilian born and bred. It also revokes all land grants given by King Philip; you will find that all are named.’ There was no resisting a glance at the worst offenders, Benavente, Villena, Juan Manuel. ‘All monies will be returned immediately to the Royal Treasury.’

  There were a few ripples of objection, but a great wave of approval. Cisneros did neither, he was preoccupied with Juana’s obvious intention to govern Castile and this had to be avoided at all costs. King Ferdinand must return, the country would not be safe in this woman’s hands.

  ‘Archbishop, I shall leave it to you to see that my orders are executed with the utmost urgency.’

  ‘Then may I suggest that meanwhile you should retire to a place untouched by the plague, Arévalo, perhaps?’

  ‘I thank you for your concern, but I have other plans.’ Her answer was polite but inside she was fuming to think that he dared suggest the town where her grandmother had spent years as a prisoner in its ugly fortress. ‘I intend to take the King Philip’s mortal remains to Granada. That was his wish. Now I need to speak to the Papal Nuncio, my father’s ambassador Ferrer, the Archbishop of Burgos and the Bishops of Malaga and Jaen. The rest may leave. I am sure you will all support the archbishop in every way you can.’

  Don Fadrique tugged on the constable’s sleeve as they left, ‘She’s as good as she ever was, she’s nobody’s fool; I can tell you. By Jove, she knows how a lot of us feel about Cisneros.’

  According to Flemish custom, surgeons had prepared Philip’s body for burial. The brain had been removed, the heart placed in a gold casket and sent to Flanders to be placed above his mother's tomb. The entrails had been burned while all parts of the body had been squeezed dry of blood to prevent rot. The cadaver was then filled with perfumes, sewn up and placed in a double coffin, the first of lead the second of wood and taken to the cathedral for the Requiem Mass. Later it was taken to the Carthusian monastery only five kilometres away at Miraflores.

  Since then there had been many rumours of plots to return the body to Flanders and Juana had begun to fear that this would inevitably come to pass if she did not take action.

  ‘Sirs,’ she informed the remaining gentlemen, ‘I in
tend leaving immediately for Granada taking my dear departed husband to his final resting place.’

  ‘Your highness, might I counsel you that this is not the time for travelling, it is winter and your condition …’

  ‘Archbishop I thank you for your concern, but there will be no postponing my departure. It is essential that I carry out the wishes of Philip. I also intend to place myself amongst friends in Granada. You know as well as I that Granada has always been solid in its support for me. I will stay there until the feuding in Castile is over.’

  ‘Then you must go alone,’ came the stern reply. ‘I will not give my consent for the body to be moved. This is Canon Law; it must not be moved for at least six months.’

  Juana panicked, thinking the worst. Someone had already taken the body. These people now sought to delay her discovery of the truth. Her voice was an explosion of fear. ‘This is untrue! My mother’s remains were taken from Medina to Granada within days of her death. We must go to Miraflores immediately. You will all attend me. The coffin must be opened. I have to see if his body is still there. You will be my witnesses.’

  She tried to hurry towards the door, speed was vital. The Bishop of Malaga sought to restrain her with gentle words, ‘Do not distress yourself unnecessarily. Nothing has changed. You will see exactly what you saw on All Souls Day when we had the coffin opened for you. Our dead king is embalmed; his face heavily covered with the very same bandages soaked in unguents and lime showing nothing more than a shape.’

  She screamed at him. ‘Do you think I will not know if it is not Philip? We will delay no longer. My escort of soldiers is ready. I have thought of every essential for my journey. I have clerics, doctors, and nurses. A cart with four strong horses is standing prepared for its precious burden. And I tell you this; I pray for your sakes that you have not tricked me and that King Philip’s remains are still there awaiting their final journey.’

  Trying to sound calm, she spoke to her ladies, ‘Sister, I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done; you have been more than generous, I shall not ask more of you. Doña Ulloa and Marta you shall accompany me.’

  Doña Ulloa was triumphant, impatient to tell King Ferdinand of her success in becoming Juana’s first lady. Everything was going to plan.

  Chapter 35

  In a small manor house in a village a few days travel from Burgos Juana and three young ladies, sitting on large floor cushions, were laughing and chatting, while occasionally turning their attention to their sewing. The gentle strains of a lute competed with the bird song that tumbled into the room down rays of summer sunshine.

  ‘Ze vezzer here, she is so kind.’

  ‘Not “she”,’ Juana laughed, ‘the weather is not a lady.’

  ‘He is so kind,’ another offered.

  ‘Not even a gentleman. In England you say “it”, the weather is neuter.’

  ‘How can you neuter the weather? Is he an animal?’

  Needles and their threads were dropped into laps and laughter reigned.

  More than a year had passed, and Juana was at last on her way to meet her father. The charm of the huddle of homes in this peaceful setting had tempted her to stop to rest here for a few days.

  Her recently appointed ladies were taking the opportunity to improve their knowledge of England; its language and its people. A widowed queen only twenty-seven years old was extremely marriageable, reasons of state virtually dictated it, and Henry VII would not be an unacceptable husband. This English marriage presented marvellous opportunities for Castilian ladies to marry into the English nobility, and so many a young beauty had sought the privilege of being a part of Juana’s court. These were the lucky few.

  ‘What do you remember most?’

  ‘It was spring, colder than here. There were enormous expanses of green, the most glorious emerald green, and with sheep so big and round I am sure they could roll down the hills. And swans, I have never seen so many. And there were miles of deep, dark forests.’

  ‘We want to hear about the people!’

  ‘You wish to hear of the gentlemen! Then let me tell you that they tend to be taller than in Castile, more robust, the peasants most certainly were; quite the opposite of our starving folk. I pray God sends us better harvests this year. English lords are very rich.’

  Sighs of delight, longing, expectation interrupted her. She continued, ‘But that is because they do not have to spend their money on wars and bribes.’

  ‘And the most handsome and wealthy gentleman of all is King Henry,’ said one eager to hear anything at all about this story book king.

  ‘He is handsome, wonderfully so, especially in word and deed,’ and Juana told again her memories of their times together. Her small audience hung on to every word.

  ‘Do read us one of his letters again, they are so romantic.’

  Juana was only too happy to oblige for she found them romantic, too. She had been a widow for about eighteen months and this “courtship” was a much needed antidote to the black and heavy sorrow that sought at times to crush her. One, perhaps her favourite, was chosen from the many similar treasures in her jewellery box.

  ‘This one, … I remember when we met how you spoke with grace and eloquence, how you took such interest in everything around you and with a delightful enquiring mind. You moved with elegance and dignity. You are everything a husband could desire. Yet, perhaps Henry is somewhat too old. He is almost fifty.’

  ‘I do not think that old for a gentleman. He will probably lose all his teeth before he runs out of seed,’ someone dared.

  ‘Sh. Sh. Sh.’ Juana covered her ears but laughed as merrily as the rest at the outrageous remark.

  Marta beamed from her chair close to the door at the far side of the room. She was as content as a mother hen with her brood of chickens. It did her heart good to know that her mistress was happy at last. Juana had gone through some very rough times: months of struggle against being locked away, the shock of Philip’s death. The birth of baby Catalina had been a grave worry, too, the delivery being such a complicated business leaving Juana so desperately ill. All her other children had come into the world so easily, and just when she needed every bit of strength, this last one had been awkward. The doctors had had to use some fearsome looking instruments. And all the while the plague followed fast on their heels, striking folk down indiscriminately, showing no respect. Marta had ensured that neither sickly people nor strangers got anywhere near her beloved mistress. That had been no mean feat; there were far too many folk crowded into this small town. It was all too ridiculous! Whatever possessed the lot of them! Her mistress could barely breathe for lords, bishops, soldiers. She found it a bit intimidating herself, but she hadn’t said anything to Juana, deciding it was probably an overreaction because she didn’t like most of the people involved.

  But this was soon to be put behind them. King Ferdinand had returned from Naples, and soon he and Juana would meet. They would talk about what had to be done about Castile, about Philip’s remains; and then Juana could start her new life in England.

  The door burst open and Doña Ulloa walked briskly towards Juana, leaving Marta thinking how some folk could never walk nicely into a room, convinced it had something to do with their characters.

  ‘A fire has broken out in the church!’

  ‘Dear God in Heaven; quickly Marta,’ Juana ran to the door reaching for her faithful servant’s hand.

  It was only a short distance to the village church. This was one of the advantages of staying here, the other being that most of the lords and their followers, including soldiers, had been forced to seek lodging in other villages; although some had still insisted on taking over local homes, however humble, the owners simply thrown out to fend for themselves in barns or hedgerows.

  Tongues of flame licked around blackened yawning windows, burning wood smoke filled the air. A chain of villagers passed water-slopping wooden buckets towards the door, getting in the way of soldiers trying to keep the entrance clear for
the emerging eight strong men bending under the coffin’s weight.

  The cleric Ferrer, Ferdinand’s ambassador, was calling out instructions, battling against the confusion. He saw Juana and shouted, ‘Now see what you have done! I warned you, but you never heed my advice.’

  Juana’s heart pounded with indignation; his manner was insufferable, ‘I give the orders. I wanted fifty candles around the catafalque.’

  ‘And I reminded you that thirty is the number set down.’

  ‘And you think it was one of my additional candles that caused this?’ She wondered why she was even arguing with the man; Philip’s remains were safe and the fire would soon be put out and she would pay for any damage. ‘The soldiers will take the coffin to my lodgings. You will have one of the rooms prepared as a chapel.’

  ‘Your home is not the place to house the king’s mortal remains.’

  ‘Do you suggest instead that yet another villager be thrown from his home to house an outsider, this time a dead one?’

  ‘There will be some very raised eyebrows about this,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Juana grabbed Marta’s hands and growled her frustration through gritted teeth, ‘That is the second time he has dared to criticise me; you remember when he tried to insist I order prayers throughout the country for the swift return of my father? He wanted me to make it public how useless I am without my father at my side. Just who does he think he is, this jumped-up little clerk, giving orders?’

  ‘Never you mind, you’ll soon be rid of him,’ Marta comforted; and, she hoped, Ulloa, too.

  ‘True, my father can have his ambassador back. In fact that is the first thing on the agenda. The second is to be rid of Ulloa. I shall offer her to my father’s wife with my blessing.’

  Relief flowed through every vein in Marta’s body. She had heard enough of Ulloa’s vicious and evil whisperings, and she suspected that the contents of her many letters carried the selfsame lies about Juana. Lies that fed on themselves, growing fat with distortions and downright untruths of Juana’s always opening Philip’s coffin so she could kiss his feet. Of course it was all poppycock, but all the same it was worryingly difficult to fight folk who are devious. She thanked God that they would soon be far away from it all.