That Other Juana

by Linda Carlino

  ‘Shall we, Juana? Do you still play? You were quite good once.’

  Perhaps she had not heard. Her eyes rested on the white king. She picked it up to study it carefully then replaced it. Next she examined her wrinkled fingers with their long nails filled and edged with all kinds of nastiness. She would try to remember to do something about that.

  ‘You have news for me, uncle?’

  ‘Nothing of great importance, I came to chat about this and that. Did you know you had a grandson and two granddaughters?’

  ‘Ah, yes, they came here once. Charming little children; DoZa Maria and Don Felipe, and the baby named after me. Their mother is quite a beauty. Do you know how I remember?’ She smiled and beckoned him closer. ‘I remember because she was wearing one of my favourite gold chains.’

  The admiral wanted to hear no more of the plunder of Juana’s jewellery.

  ‘And your dear Catalina, she has given you another granddaughter.’

  The agony tightened about her once more, the picture so vivid, of those hours watching the entourage bearing her child away over the bridge and across the plains until there was nothing left to see. For two days she had remained at the window refusing to move, willing Catalina to return, never allowing her eyes to leave that point on the horizon where she had last seen her.

  ‘They took her away from me.’

  ‘She had to go to Portugal, Juana. That is the way of things. But you must rejoice in the safe delivery of her child.’

  ‘Catalina never came back. I am alone with my tormentors.’

  ‘What is it that you suffer at these people's hands? What is it that Denia …?’

  Juana pushed herself up from her seat. ‘Do not speak his name. He is vile; a slimy, disgusting reptile. May God curse him, the foul heap of dung. I spit on his name, on his wife's name, his sons’ and daughters’ names, and all those who follow his orders.’ She spat on the floor for everyone's name she could remember.

  Her vehemence rocked him. He was at a loss to know what to say, so decided to say nothing, to wait until the storm abated. He left her cursing and spitting and walked to the window to look out at the route Catalina had followed and to contemplate those ensuing years that Juana had had to endure, alone.

  Eventually there was calm and silence behind him. He turned to find Juana smiling at him as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  He would try a different topic.

  ‘Did you hear of Charles's coronation as Holy Roman Emperor? It was evidently splendid beyond words.’ Don Fadrique groaned as he lowered himself into his chair.

  ‘It would have to be. And whose jewels did he steal to make it a glittering occasion I wonder? It would certainly take many more than those he stole from me.’

  Don Fadrique laughed and slapped his knee. ‘Juana,’ he chortled, ‘you are still the same. You were never one to be afraid of voicing your opinions.’

  ‘I only speak the truth, uncle.’

  ‘Well, it is a fact that he has taken most of his wife’s jewels, to the value of ninety thousand ducats; promising to pay them back, of course.’

  ‘Ha! I could tell her that he never gives back he only takes. He is no better than a common thief.’

  The admiral put his finger to his lips and pointed towards the door. She nodded. She understood, Denia was probably listening, and she smiled. This was exciting; they were conspirators, sharing secrets.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ continued Don Fadrique, ‘his cape and crown were made of so much gold and so many precious stones it would be impossible to calculate its cost or its weight. And, would you believe it, following the ceremony gold and silver coins were thrown to the crowds.’

  ‘I believe it; he would enjoy playing the role of a great emperor. He probably thinks himself greater than Charlemagne. He is the most conceited and selfish man I know. And I can tell you something else; it would be other people’s money that was thrown away, not his!’

  ‘Tut tut, Juana.’ It would be best to avoid further stories of Charles. ‘Did you know that Leonor is married?’

  ‘She married the Portuguese king.’

  ‘He died. Catalina married his son, the newly crowned King John.’

  ‘Catalina never came back and I waited and waited. That was a knife straight to my heart; my only child, taken from me.’

  The admiral had no intention of going over that ground again. ‘You do have five other children.’

  ‘Really? All strangers except for Catalina; she was mine, all mine.’

  Don Fadrique hastened the conversation on. ‘Leonor married King Francis of France.’

  He watched her knit her brows and struggle through a mist of confusion, having to substitute the French king for the ancient Portuguese monarch; all excusable really and damned difficult, he thought, when days had melted into months then years, and all news had been deliberately kept from her.

  Finally she nodded. ‘Ah, yes, so she did, so she did, I remember now. It was politics; it was Charles striking a bargain, using his sister.’

  ‘You are right, of course. Burgundy was returned to you and your family and Charles returned Francis's two young sons.’

  ‘He steals children as well as jewels! How did he come to have them?’

  ‘Francis had been Charles’s prisoner but was released in exchange for the boys. They were held as hostages until all the negotiations were completed. They were then set free; Leonor accompanied them to France.’

  ‘Men can be the cruellest of creatures. Imagine, two little ones, with no one to love or care for them, in a strange country, terrified. I expect the French would not look too kindly on Leonor.’

  ‘Wars are very complicated.’

  Juana interrupted, ‘Do you remember Margaret of Austria, my sister-in-law? They gave her my children.’

  ‘She certainly cared for four of them.’

  ‘Does she still look after them?’

  ‘No. They are all grown up and married.’ There would be no point in elaborating. ‘Alas, Margaret is dead. It was a stupid accident. A glass goblet was broken in her bedchamber. They say a stray fragment had found a hiding place in her slipper. She cut her foot and it became infected. A sad business; I know you had a great affection for her.’

  But Juana was travelling with her memories to years long gone. ‘She was married to my brother.’

  ‘You remember!’

  ‘Oh yes I remember some things.’ She played at making pleats in her skirts then gave her undivided attention to the stains on her sleeves.

  ‘Dear Juan. Mother always called him her angel. When we were little I called him Juanito. He was so very special. I have a picture of him right here,’ she tapped her forehead. ‘He once said that I was a fighter and should always fight for what is right, what is justly mine. And I have fought, uncle. I have fought many a battle; I am not sure if I ever won any outright but here I am still fighting.’ She sat up proudly, ‘Who knows I may be victorious one day.’

  ‘There is no one who can match you for spirit; that is for sure.’ He stroked her hand.

  Juana laughed wickedly. ‘Spirit, yes, but what of my soul? Did you know that everyone here is obsessed with the fact that I rarely confess and often refuse to attend Mass?’

  The admiral was alarmed; this was far too serious to be treated so lightly. ‘Juana you must take care. I am not afraid for your soul, but we do live in difficult times. The Inquisition has not ceased its Holy War against heretics and it would be dangerous if those around you were to imply that by these actions you …’

  ‘Do you suggest that I should be a hypocrite; only pay lip-service to my duties while doing nothing to have things set to rights?’

  ‘No. Oh Juana, I do not know the answer. How am I to advise you? If only you would find another way to protest. Could you not seek some compromise?’

  ‘Would you have me surrender so readily? As Juan said, I must continue the battle.’

  ‘Then God be with you.’

  Their conversation had
found its natural end. There was nothing left to discuss, today or any other day. He knew as he uttered those few words they were his valedictory blessing on Juana. They would never meet again. There would be little point in his returning. Also, he was old, far too old, to get involved in religious affairs; and in any case he lacked the heart and stomach for the struggle. He despaired at his failure, the more so as he recognised that any report he sent to Charles would be set aside, unread. The marqués was right.

  This visit had amounted to nothing more than one of self-indulgence, assuaging the longings of a sentimental old man to see his niece just once more before he died. Following his departure Juana would continue alone and unaided.

  ‘Juana, shall we have something to eat?’

  ‘No, I usually eat alone. I have little appetite, and I am sure you would want more than bread and cheese. I get tired of them day after day. Still, I find they save better than most things if not eaten right away.’

  This revelation of another outrage against his niece, being given nothing better than pauper’s fare, was unbearable. He accompanied Juana to her apartments and watched as the door closed behind her. He sank on to a nearby stool, setting his cane between his feet and dropping his chin onto his bony knuckles. Silent tears rolled down over his cheeks to lose themselves in his snowy beard.

  A kitchen maid came along the corridor carrying two earthenware bowls, one on top of the other, and a pitcher. She put them down on the floor near the door. Don Fadrique shook his head at them: one bowl with its slab of dried and cracked cheese, the other its hunk of bread, the pitcher full of water.

  His old heart was being torn asunder, his ancient body one huge angry protest. ‘What is that?’

  ‘The queen's meal.’

  ‘Who ordered this?’

  ‘The master says seeing as how she doesn’t seem to want much it would be sinful to waste good food, so she gets the bread and cheese and we eat what was cooked for her. And very welcome it is too, even if I shouldn’t say so.’

  ‘So while the queen gets nothing more than this, you dine on beef, chicken, pork?’

  ‘As I said, sir, it’s because she doesn’t always like to eat.’

  ‘And why put it here on the floor, for pity's sake?’

  The woman squirmed, reluctant to reply, ‘Sir, if you please, it has been done this way since before my time. You see, you never know what sort of mood she might be in. Sometimes she can get very bad tempered when she sees her meal and when she does she throws things. So we just leave it here outside the door. If she wants it she gets it herself. It saves a lot of bother, you know, like somebody having to punish her if she has hit anyone in her temper … I've said too much.’ She curtsied and dashed away.

  So this was how they saw Juana; an animal, a wild beast, or something worse, to be fed from a safe distance.

  He thought of the Juana he had just spent the last hour with. Yes, she had shown spirit, but of the kind that would never invite censure were she a man. In any case she was the queen and therefore at liberty to do and say as she pleased. At liberty, he chided himself, was an unfortunate turn of phrase to chose. Juana had also shown confusion at times, but that was not so surprising after years of confinement.

  What had happened to all those promises to treat Juana as a queen?

  Ignored; instead they had deliberately set about making her into a monster so that now appropriate measures could be taken to deal with their own creation.

  And where did Juana fit in with all this? After many years of experiencing nothing other, she had grown accustomed to filling that very role.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven he wept, ‘please show her some mercy and justice, for there is no one to offer it here.’

  Chapter 50

  Juana was seventy-four years old (she must be because someone had said that this year was 1554) and she congratulated herself once more on her remarkable stamina. Many might have been broken by the years of ill-treatment at the hands of the Denias, but not Juana. She wouldn’t allow her enemies that pleasure. If only the admiral or some other long-lost friend could be here to share in her wry satisfaction.

  She closed the lid to her casket with its remaining trinkets then manoeuvred it with deliberate precision alongside an oblong leather box holding perhaps her most treasured possession. Ferdinand, her favourite son, had sent it from Vienna a few years ago, wishing to be remembered to her on her sixty-ninth or seventieth birthday, she couldn’t remember which.

  The casket and box accompanied her wherever she went in the palace. Her apartments were being repaired and decorated so she had been transferred to this more spacious accommodation. It had happened before so she knew that her stay here would be nothing other than temporary.

  Having positioned the casket to her liking and caressed once again the leather box she settled herself into her chair and was ready to speak to the middle aged gentleman standing at the other side of the table.

  ‘How is your father?’ she enquired as a ritual of Don Luis, the new Marqués de Denia.

  ‘He is no better,’ Don Luis lied, as he did every time, having inherited the title on his father’s death almost twenty years before.

  ‘What kind of lingering illness does the man have that it should last so long? Not that I miss his company. It seems to me that he has never been well since that time he took me away from here. A threat of plague, he said. Serves him right for lying; saying I was to get all new clothes when we got to wherever we were going. And to think I believed him and threw out so much. But I stopped the servants from helping themselves to my things which I intended to have burnt.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Don Luis replied, bored with the tale so often repeated, ‘because you threw dishes at them as they sorted through the bundles lying in the yard below.’

  Juana was disappointed, she would have preferred to have enriched a story she enjoyed retelling.

  ‘And your father was too mean to allow me my own mule. I had to be content with being hoisted up to ride with him; undignified and uncomfortable I would have you know.’

  The marqués knew full well that the reason for her travelling in this manner was because his father had been terrified lest she went galloping off on her own to seek sanctuary.

  She continued, ‘As it turned out we went nowhere, spending a few nights of aggravation wandering aimlessly about before returning here.’ She laughed, ‘He said that the inconvenience to me was unfortunate but that he was acting solely for my safety. Now, does that sound like your father?’ She raised her arms to emphasise her rhetorical question.

  Don Luis was sorely tempted to tell Juana that their exodus from Tordesillas was to protect his father and his family, not her, and that he had had no option but to take her with them. But he refrained as he had on all other occasions.

  Juana concluded, ‘You may tell your father not to concern himself over hurrying back to his duties on my account since I have found in you a man every inch as bad.’

  The marqués was impatient to be gone, he found visiting Juana an irritating waste of time. It was rare that he came to see her, and then only when necessary. Today he had come to inspect the room before Francisco de Borja was allowed in. No, he wanted no part of these boring conversations with the crazy old hag of seventy and more years, wizened, hollow cheeked and toothless, who for some reason refused to die and liberate him from his obligation to King Charles.

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  Juana stared blankly at him.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ he repeated, admiring the rings on his fingers, the gold chains about his neck. They had all found their way from Juana’s treasury, some into his father’s possession and thence to him, others he had selected himself.

  He and his family had fared well for many a year under the generous auspices of King Charles. Their loyalty had been repaid bounteously. They each had a more than generous personal allowance. The number of Juana’s servants, soldiers, and guards, in reality Denia’s, had reached the grand total of three h
undred and accounted for at least one quarter of the town's population. The palace was sumptuously appointed, as indeed it must be, in readiness for important guests, especially the king, although his visits were infrequent. In the meanwhile everything was at the disposal of Don Luis and his family. It was of no consequence to him whether Juana ate, slept, changed her clothes, did or did not do anything provided she was held secure.

  As Juana continued to ignore him he turned on his heel and walked out, muttering about the patience of Job.

  Juana hadn’t responded because she was preoccupied. She was wondering who might be coming to see her and why. She was determined not to criticise anything or anyone. She had learned that lesson long ago when her complaints to her own son had exacted nothing but brutal punishments from the Denias.

  Denia returned accompanied by a black-robed priest. They bowed, the marqués announcing, ‘With permission, your highness, this is Father Francisco.’

  Juana cackled her reprimand, ‘Such deference! You hypocrite; and in front of a priest, no less!’

  The Jesuit priest was unaware of all this. He was transfixed. The last time he had seen Juana she was still an attractive woman. Admittedly her beauty, even then, had begun to fade and her choice in clothing and a lack of interest in her appearance had done little to help; but this, this was too much of a shock. This Juana looked like a work-worn ancient nun, little more than a skeleton dressed in coarse grey wool, left to spend her remaining days sitting by the fireside dozing and dribbling while the rest of the community went about their business. What had he expected? She was very old and most people died long before reaching her age. He talked himself out of his disquiet and focussed his thoughts on the reason for his being here.

  ‘Your highness I have been sent by the King of Naples.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ she squinted up at him. ‘I had no idea there was one. My father used to be the King of Naples but he died and I inherited the title. I suppose you mean Charles; he steals everything.’