That Other Juana

by Linda Carlino

  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 he 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!’

  The priests were nonplussed.

  ‘Sweet mother,’ he implored.

  ‘Do not dare speak until I finish!’ she screamed. ‘Tell me why, after stealing my gold, my rubies, my sapphires and diamonds; you went to the trouble to fill their place with these?’

  She took the casket and emptied its contents onto the floor. Thirty or more small stones and pebbles rattled and clattered their way across the tiles.

  Juana pointed to them, continuing to scream, ‘What cruel deceit was this? Why would a son treat his mother so? What treachery! Dear God I must sit.’

  Her heart battled against her ribs making a thundering in her ears. She stumbled towards the throne, pushing Charles aside.

  Leonor, Catalina, and the priests stared at the floor, eyes searching out here a stone, there another pebble.

  Charles stood beleaguered, the evidence of his guilt spread about his feet. He had to swallow his fury, ‘Let me explain, although I need not if I so choose. Ever since I inherited the throne there have been some extraordinary expenses. Monies have been necessary to settle unrest in Germany and Flanders, for securing the Imperial Crown, for putting down the civil unrest here in Spain and latterly for the wars against France. The country's purse was quite empty and I needed more money. I did not wish to burden you with affairs of state, mother. In any case I felt justified in taking what after all are Crown Jewels. I have every intention of replacing them when Spain is at peace.’

  She stared at him digging deep into his soul, shaking her head at his lies. He felt unmasked; she knew he would take anything and do anything he pleased; that he saw it as his right.

  ‘Your words do nothing to excuse your duplicity. And as for replacing them, you will never have enough to match your endless needs. How much more do you intend to steal from me, and what will the excuses be?’

  Charles had regained his composure, ‘Money had to be found and there’s an end to it. I need even more than I could possibly raise with your jewels, much more. Fortunately I have finally found the solution. I have at last secured one million ducats.’

  This was an incredible amount; Leonor and Catalina exchanged wide-eyed disbelief, Juana shook her head, questioning such a preposterous figure. Only the priests, who knew of its source, remained unmoved by the disclosure that such a sum could have been found when every big bank of Europe had denied him.

  ‘I am to marry the Princess Isabel of Portugal. Her dowry you must agree is considerable.’

  Juana struggled with her memory. There had been so many suggested brides and betrothals. Had she ever heard that this princess, her niece, was a possibility?

  ‘One million ducats! Royal houses; they are all moneylenders, or borrowers, or merchants, all seeking out the best offer and nothing more; where will it all end?’

  ‘With marriage settlements.’

  ‘Settlements; there are more than one?’

  ‘Leonor is to marry.’

  Leonor stepped forward, her hand to her bosom, calming her leaping heart, smiling as finally her mother and sister were about to hear her happy news. She was to marry her childhood sweetheart, Count Federico.

  ‘Leonor is to wed a prisoner of mine, Francis, King of France.’

  ‘Not true, not true; it cannot be! You promised me I would marry Federico!’ Her brother had gone back on his word for the second time. ‘You reneged on the marriage contract with John, making me marry his disgusting old father Emanuel; a hunchback, a dribbling invalid. I did my duty. You said his death left me free to follow my heart; those were your very words. I trusted you. You have no right to treat me like this.’

  ‘I have every right. Remember your station, madam. I will govern this house as I do the nation. I am the king; I decide for all.’

  ‘I will not do it!’ She had taken courage from her young sister.

  ‘You know you will. You have no choice, nor does Francis if he wants his freedom. If it is of any consolation your husband-to-be is only four years older than you, and handsome.’ He bestowed what he thought was a warm fraternal smile, full of understanding, on his romantic sister then turned to Juana. ‘Leonor will become queen of France and as a wedding gift she will receive Burgundy. Burgundy will at last be returned to our family; are you not impressed?’

  Juana glanced at her two daughters both looking completely miserable. ‘You can see that we are all delighted beyond words.’

  ‘Well, at least I know I shall cheer Catalina. She, unlike her sister, will not be ungrateful. I told you earlier there would be great changes for you, Catalina. You, too, are to wed. You are betrothed to King John of Portugal, brother of my intended wife, Isabel. You will no longer be obliged to remain here suffering all those terrible discomforts you were complaining of earlier. Now, what do you have to say? What, not even a smile?’

  Catalina was overjoyed. Freedom; how often had she dreamed that one day she might be free of this prison? It was wonderful news. It was more than that. She would be going to Portugal to become the bride of a king! It was all too good to be true. But what of her mother? Could she abandon her so easily? Who would there be to protect her?

  ‘No! No! No!’ Juana’s howls rent the air. ‘No, you cannot do this to me! She is all I have! Dear God she is my life!’ She stumbled down from the throne on its dais, moving distractedly about the room, trapped in her anguish, staring wildly, wringing her hands, biting at her knuckles. She stopped, resting on the sideboard. Two candle
sticks were in her hands, and she turned, hurling them at Charles and screaming, ‘You have taken everything else but you shall not have my Catalina.’

  Silver dishes, gold plates and pitchers followed, clattering against furniture, crashing to the floor as she sobbed, ‘She shall not go!’

  Juana's screams lost nothing of their intensity as she flung everything she could lay her hands on until at last there was nothing left on the sideboard save the velvet cover. She tore it from its place, collapsing with it to the floor.

  Leonor led a tearful Catalina from the room; there was nothing they could do.

  As soon as Juana lay still the Franciscan priest came to her side and knelt down. He urged Juana to be joyful for her daughter. He admonished her for her selfishness in standing in the way of her daughter’s happiness. He called on her to seek forgiveness as a true daughter of God for her unseemly behaviour.

  Juana quickly dried her wet cheeks on the cover then fixed him with an angry, incredulous stare. ‘Selfish? I am being selfish when Catalina is all I have and I have just been told I am to lose her forever? Catalina is my solace, my only joy in this hellhole. You dare to judge me, knowing nothing of me and the way I am treated, having no idea of the conditions here. How presumptuous of you to criticise. I tell you now, priest, I will never, ever confess again. No, not while I have breath in my body,’ she hissed at him. ‘Nor will I seek forgiveness. Where, in God's name is your compassion? Where is your sympathy? Where is your charity? Where are the words of comfort? Get out of my sight! You disgust me!’

  ‘I must warn you that you invite excommunication,’ the Franciscan’s voice was loud and harsh; but having heard Catalina’s evidence and now this outburst, matters were indeed serious. ‘It would appear that you need reminding that confession is an absolute obligation imposed by divine institution. You must humbly ask pardon of God, and absolution from our Heavenly Father. If you refuse to hear the Church, you are a heathen and outside the Church. Outside the Church is the devil. My lord, King Charles, has every justification in fearing for you.’

  Chapter 49

  The years 1525 to 1533 had passed over the palace at Tordesillas without stopping to look or care. One dark day followed another, adding to the misery and age of the inhabitants, and it was an enfeebled marqués who now shuffled his way along the corridor. He came to a halt, catching his breath, at the door to Juana’s apartments. He was thinner than ever, his white hair sparse and forming a ragged fringe under his black bonnet.

  A guard held the door open for him. He still paused, waiting until his eyes became accustomed to the poor light. First he made out the shapes of two serving girls, who had stopped their cleaning the moment he appeared and backed away deeper into the room, then he noticed the silhouetted figure of Juana standing by the window.

  ‘Someone is here to see you,’ he wheezed.

  There was no response.

  ‘We have not improved our manners in the last eight years, have we?’ It was delivered with weary sarcasm.

  Juana whirled round, snatched a broom from one of the girls and began jabbing it in his direction to drive him away.

  ‘You know I cannot allow this kind of behaviour.’ He took a step towards her.

  Juana dropped the broom, closed her eyes, and raised an arm to protect herself from the coming blows. But there was no need, for these days Denia was incapable of administering anything other than verbal punishment.

  And, of course, nothing happened, as so often these days. She lowered her arm. ‘Where is Denia?’

  ‘He’s gone, my lady, just turned and went. But he’s right, you do have a visitor. We’d heard, but didn’t want to say; you know what the master is like about us telling you anything. There’s been a proper commotion, I can tell you.’

  ‘Is it friend or foe; and does it matter,’ Juana began giggling nervously.

  ‘It’s an admiral; your uncle, he says. Said something about how he hasn’t seen you in eight years.’

  ‘Eight years? Denia was just talking about eight years.’

  ‘What we were thinking was that it has been ages since anybody at all came to see you.’

  Raised male voices tumbled down the corridor; old, crackling, angry voices.

  One of the girls ventured, ‘You see what I mean? It was like this all day yesterday; such arguments as you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘And I say I will go to the queen's apartment to see her! If she is too unwell to leave her room I know she will not take it amiss if her old uncle comes to her.’

  ‘I insist that you wait for her out here!’

  ‘I am here on the king's business. I am family. I have come for a family visit.’

  ‘Whatever you tell the king will be of no consequence, his majesty only heeds my words. I will tell you anything you want to know, there is no need for you to go in there. In fact I refuse to give my permission.’

  ‘You, sir, are probably the most exasperating man I have had the misfortune to meet, and I have met a few. Now let me get on.’ The admiral shepherded him aside with his stick.

  Don Fadrique, his stick returned to its intended use, limped his way into the apartments of his niece. Through dimmed rheumy eyes he peered at the figure who had once, decades ago, been his beautiful, tender charge; a young girl with hazel eyes and auburn hair, a lass with a zest for life. Now she was in her fifties, a wrinkled and old woman, with grey unkempt hair that neither brush nor comb had been near in years. An ugly grey dress, or robe, or whatever it purported to be, clung to her thin frame. It took all his determination not to weep.

  If his eyes, poor as they were, didn’t deceive him that woollen dress was unwashed and spattered with months of accumulated stains. There was a heavy, foul odour in the room, and it emanated from Juana. When had she last bathed or changed her undergarments?

  He advanced a step and bent one leg very gingerly, ‘I should kneel, I know, but then I might never get up again.’

  Juana studied him as he raised her hand to kiss it. Who was this old gentleman with kind eyes and comfortable beard? Was it who they said it was; her uncle? And then it happened. It was like the arrival of a new dawn, the early sun bringing warmth after the cold of night. The old face was calling up scenes of other times, other places; there were ships and high seas and shipwrecks, there were palaces with banquets and balls, huge rooms flooded with candlelight and music.

  A hesitant smile; then, ‘I do know you! I was so afraid of being unsure. I rarely see anyone and people and places get all mixed up. But now I know it is really you. You are my uncle; my dear Uncle Fadrique.’

  ‘And you my favourite niece.’

  ‘We must have so much to talk about. Will you be here for long?’

  ‘For a few days.’

  ‘Even so,’ she frowned, ‘there will probably be so little time. She pointed over his shoulder towards the door, ‘that man, may not permit another visit.’

  ‘Rest assured that will not happen.’

  Like a happy child she introduced him to her two servants, ‘Here is my uncle come to see me. Find him a chair.’

  ‘Would you not prefer to take a stroll?’ He had no wish to stay in this room a moment longer than necessary and had a ready excuse. ‘I find if I sit too long my knees turn to stone and forget how to move.’

  ‘Why, of course, a stroll. That sounds splendid. Usually I am not allowed to leave my apartments, although sometimes I do sneak out and I rush to the far end of the corridor. Then I scream for someone to come to rescue me. But no one ever comes.’

  The delivery was flat, emotionless, and Don Fadrique doubted it was true. But supposing it was and his frail niece was desperately seeking help and there was no one to offer succour; what then?

  ‘Denia gets so angry and …’

  ‘The marqués gets angry and what?’

  Juana glanced about her, putting a warning her finger to her lips, ‘Shh. But I am too strong for him. He will never win, you shall see.’

  ‘What is all this Juana, ar
e you telling me that the marqués is violent towards you?’ Don Fadrique knew this must be sheer invention; the marqués would scarce put fear into the heart of a mouse.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she was quite dismissive. ‘All the same, not a word; promise.’

  Although unable to put much faith in Juana’s words, they and everything he had seen and heard since his arrival formed a terrible picture. Juana was a prisoner; she certainly looked like one. This room was her cell and she could not set foot beyond the door without being punished.

  He remembered that time, all of twenty years ago, when King Ferdinand had been determined to prove that she had lost her reason, she had been in bad shape. But she had looked positively radiant years later, when Hernan Duque was here, and again after the routing of the Comuneros. Had not all the reports buzzing about Spain and beyond spoken of her grace, her intelligence, her charm, and the excellence of her gowns?

  He had never forgiven himself for being one of the regents who had freed her from the rebels only to deliver her again into the hands of that villain Denia. These last eight years of confinement without the support of Catalina had possibly broken the last threads linking her to … he could not bear even to think of the word. Hopefully the letter he would write to the king would bring about some changes here; something must be done, and quickly. He stopped, clapped his hand to his forehead muttering, ‘But wait, you old fool, Charles has been here, has seen how things are. Dear God, how could he allow this?’

  ‘What did you say, uncle?’

  ‘Oh nothing; just moaning my frustration with the aches and pains that old age has thought fit to bless me with.’

  They wandered slowly down the corridor and into the anteroom of the Grand Salon, making their way towards a neglected chess table with two chairs, the pieces arranged and standing waiting, as they had waited for many a year, to welcome players.