Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (15 page)

“Si.” Her grip tightened on Beatriz’s hand, and her eyes fell. “They are bad people. They have done bad things, evil things...”

Beatriz shivered, and the words of a poem beat like a heartbeat in her mind. A poem written by a Jew:

Hand of its clouds, winter wrote a
letter
Upon the garden, in purple and
blue.

Upon the garden, in purple and blue.... Now she feared what happened this day would shadow winter’s clouds upon these two young lives. For ever.

Yet again haunted by the girl and her mother-in-law, Beatriz remembered the old woman’s compassion, her tender care for the child-woman. She remembered the girl’s terror.

“Those people we saw today? Truly them?” Maria asked.

Catalina’s mouth trembled. “Perchance, not them, but their people bear the guilt of wrong doing...”

Maria blinked and shook her hand. “What have they done?”

Catalina swallowed again, her eyes travelling around the room before returning to stare down at the hand clasped by her friend. Once again, her hand tightened on Beatriz’s.

“I don’t want to speak of it.”

“But,” Maria injected, “we vowed to tell each other everything! Everything!”

Beatriz felt it was time to interrupt. “Did the queen tell you not to speak? If she did, you must do what she says.”

Catalina rubbed at her eyes. “No, Mother said nothing about that.”

“Then please tell us,” Maria said.

Beatriz shivered at what she saw in Catalina’s frightened eyes.

“Why do you always want to know?” the child said.

Maria wound her arms around her and hugged her tight. “Because I love you.”

Catalina let go of their hands and stepped away from them. When she faced them again, tears ran down her face. “The Jews crucified a baby! An innocent boy! Cut out his heart and asked the Devil to kill us all. The Jews desire our deaths – the death of Christians.”

Beatriz felt sick. Putting her arm around the horrified Maria, she whispered, “By all... who said this?”

“Mother.” Her eyes challenged Beatriz. “Do you doubt her word?”

Hand of its clouds, winter wrote a
letter
Upon the garden, in purple and
blue.

The garden, their childhood. The two girls looked dazed, as if their whole world had darkened, and been ripped apart.

Beatriz remembered her grandfather, son of a converto descended from the great Samuel ibn Nagrella himself. Her mother’s great-grandfather stayed a Jew to the day he died, as did so many of his kin. Her kin. Jews. And not too many generations away Catalina’s own father and mother lay claim to sharing the blood of a converto. Learning lessons of history in their school-room, they often delighted to own these men as kin. Sometimes, even the queen spoke of them to her daughters, telling stories that fuelled their pride.

Rubbing the tears from her face, Maria spoke. “If the queen told you this, then it must be true. But all the Jews? How can it be all the Jews, Catalina?”

Returning to the stool, Catalina sniffed. “Mother said she gave the Jews three months to become convertos. That time has ended, and now all the Jews not Christian must go.

“That old woman and her family were leaving Castilla, as my mother commanded. Surely if they were truly good people, they would convert and stay. Mother says those people we saw today not only have the blood of Jesus on their hands, but that of the child’s. She thinks only of her kingdom’s safety. That boy was her subject, and Jews murdered him.”

“My mother says there are bad people everywhere, calling themselves Jews, Moors or Christian. Just because a few are bad doesn’t mean all are,” Maria pleaded.

Catalina appeared deaf to her friend. “The Jews refuse to turn from their evil life. They refuse to see Jesus Christ as their Messiah. Mother says as long as she allows Jews to stay, she’s endangering the unity of her kingdom, failing her duty to her subjects and service to God. God made her queen, and her conscience tells her she must clean Castilla of... this contamination. Father thinks likewise. God stirs them to do what is right for all.”

She spoke a lesson learnt by rote. For the third time today, Beatriz saw in her mind the virgin-faced girl, labouring far too early with her child. Kept silent because of her loyalty to the queen, she wanted to weep. She felt the prescience of death, casting its shroud upon her, the girls, the winter clouds that shadowed them all and made their world black.

“Contamination... What do you mean?” Maria asked

Catalina sniffed again, gnawing at her mouth. Another milk tooth came loose. Catalina’s eyes continued their restless search around the room. It seemed peace eluded her. Beatriz felt sickened. Surely a child of seven should not be burdened with such things? “The Jews are a stain on Castilla and my father’s kingdom. God wants us to rid ourselves of them – my mother told me so. Please, let’s not talk of this any more.”

She fell on her knees, pulling Maria down alongside her. “Pray. Pray with me. For our sins.”

Beatriz could not look away from the child’s tear-streaked face as Catalina said one of her mother’s most loved prayers. “I praise the Virgin Mother and her son Jesus. Vehemently I mourn my sins, constantly hoping in Jesus.”

He who inherits a hill must climb
it
~ Castilian proverb

T
he days following, Beatriz found Catalina glum and silent, not even responding when it came to her studies. For hours the child prayed in her mother’s private chapel, leaving Beatriz with Maria as her sole scholar. Miserable too, Maria longed to go home to her own mother. With darkness surrounding them – a shroud of miasma hiding some nameless horror – suffocating and ill, Beatriz decided to grab their sunhats and take Maria out into the garden and wait for Catalina there.

Encouraging Maria to do the same, Beatriz fell to her knees and started clearing the weeds from the herb garden. An hour sped by before a shadow fell over them. Beatriz straightened, rested her dirty hands on her lap and peered up at Catalina. Beside her Maria gave a yelp of joy, going to embrace her friend.

“What happened to today’s lesson?” Catalina asked, narrowing her eyes against the morning’s glaring light. Not waiting for an answer, she sank down to her knees and picked up a spare hand fork. “Let me help you.”

Catalina cocked her head, and pointed to a small shrub. “What’s that?”

Beatriz dug into the earth. “Sage. It’s used in salads and sauces. And to protect us from restless spirits, and even for wisdom.”

Catalina inhaled a deep breath and sighed. “I pray to be wise.”

Beatriz jabbed deeper around the rosemary bunch, careful to avoid its spiky branches, tidying the patch of earth in front of her. “Time will give you that wish,” she said.

“Mother is so unhappy.”

Beatriz gave a vicious tug to a healthy dandelion growing overtop a wilting feverfew, and tossed it to the pile mounting at her side. “I must speak to the queen about the good sisters here. By all the good saints, either they possess a great need for diuretics or they neglect this garden. The dandelions win the victory here.” With a sigh, she sat back on her haunches, contemplating Catalina. “You know your mother’s position is not one to encourage happiness?”

Beatriz carefully eased up a small seedling of angelica too near to the comfrey and replanted it farther away so it would not fight for ground as it matured and grew its tall stalk. She perused the garden, naming the herbs. Yarrow, the awful tasting horehound – what she used to becalm Juan’s coughs – rue, rosemary, balm – to attract the bees – and the low, grey-green leaf of creeping thyme. “Si, a ruler’s life is not an easy one,” Catalina murmured.

“You don’t know the half of it, child. Times like these dagger the queen’s good heart.” Beatriz pulled out another dandelion. “Child, I do not mind dandelions. As I have told you, boiled in water and left aside to sit for a time, they make a useful drink that helps us void our bladders.” She grinned at both Catalina and Maria. “The French call dandelion not only Lion’s teeth but also Piss in Bed – a good name too. They do their job that well. But this plant needs controlling otherwise they’ll take over an entire garden. If I left this any longer, I fear all the precious herbs used for doctoring would be in a bad state. Already, dandelions draw to themselves all the moisture in the earth.”

Catalina planted her hands on the warm, rich earth. “You talk of other than simply dandelions, Latina...”

Beatriz grinned at her bright student, yanking another weed out from the earth to add to her pile. “More things grow in the garden than the gardener sows or desires. Child, a good ruler is a little like being a good gardener. Gardeners are often called on for decisions that bring them pain. Not long ago at my home at Salamanca, I gave permission to cut down a dozen good trees in my orange grove to give the remainder a better chance for a longer and more productive life.”

Catalina absorbed her words while the eyes of the old mother flashed into Beatriz’s mind. What real harm did she hold for them? The words she spoke to Catalina seemed so hollow – so wrong.

Beatriz rubbed her face.
Do not cry, do not cry.
How many times she had spoken to the queen in recent times? Reminding her of the golden age, when Christian, Moor and Jew all worked together for the advancement of all. It was not perfect, nothing ever is, but it showed what could be done. “God Himself tells us a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand,” she said, trying to remind herself, as well as offer some comfort to Catalina. “Your mother has tried hard to solve her kingdom’s troubles ever since she first came to the throne. Now she is ill and worn out. She fears for your brother, Prince Juan. She wants him to inherit a strong and unified kingdom.”

“So she commands the Jews to become Christian or else leave Castilla.”

“Believe me, ’twas not an easy thing for her to do. The queen realises she is indebted to many Jews. From the first days of her rule, powerful Jews formed an important part of her government. She knows the debt she and Castilla owes to them, especially men like her finance ministers, Abraham Seneor and Isaac Abrabanel. She begged them – so many times – to convert. Some Jews have – the loyal Andrés Cabrera for one. It is my thought that being the governor-general of Segovia and married to Dońa Beatriz de Bobadilla helped here. The queen rewarded him richly. She would have done the same for the other Jews, if only they converted.”

Catalina bit her lower lip. Beatriz lifted her eyebrows and heaved a sigh. “Your question, child?”

The girl looked all around, as if making certain there were no others in the garden. “Do you think she’s right to do this?”

Beatriz attended to the herbs for a moment, hoping to hide her sudden tears. “Your mother believes herself right, that God Himself means for her to do this. You know God’s will is the stone on which her whole life is built.” Beatriz pulled out another weed, another, and another. “For your mother, and for so many others, the divine right of monarchy is as real as this garden we see here. To doubt it places doubt upon her entire rule. But I see the woman behind the queen and know, even if she refuses to own to it, how this daggers her brave heart.”

Straightening up again, Beatriz heaved another sigh and rubbed her hands from the top of her thighs to her knees. “My whole life revolves around questions.” She reached for Catalina’s hand. “I trust you with the truth. I want to speak to you as I would to one full-grown. Infanta, my heart tells me that only time and God will tell us whether our queen judged right for her kingdom.

“But I give thanks to our Almighty God. I’ll never be forced into a position like my queen. In my life I can expect to cast out just weeds and other unwanted plants from a garden such as this. I can sleep at night and, if not, a hot elixir of Valerian will soon put me to right. Not so with your mother. She sleeps hardly at all.”

···

Weeks plodded by, and the royal family remained at the Alhambra for the hottest weeks of summer. Despite the sunlit season, recent events still darkened the infanta’s spirits. Catalina’s capacity for joy was such that she usually surmounted her sadness during the day, but her nightmares increased at night. Beatriz tried to keep her occupied with new books, but it seemed her nightmares began to keep her company during the day too. Even her companion Maria could not console her. Depressed, Beatriz felt as changed as both girls.

One day, Beatriz brought Catalina and Maria to one of their favourite places, the seats set near the fountains in the Hall of the Lions. For a time, Catalina just sat, saying nothing and staring out ahead. Sighing, Beatriz read again the lines engraved around the fountain. Hoping to raise a smile from Catalina, she read the poem aloud. Like the water pouring down in the huge marble bowl, her words flowed in musical rhythm:

In appearance water and marble seem to confuse themselves,
not knowing which of each is flowing.
Do you not see that the water spills into the basin
But its drains hide it immediately?
It is a lover whose eyelids brim with tears, tears
which hide in fear of a betrayer.

Catalina groaned, as if the poem tore down her fragile defences. Beatriz turned. She clasped Catalina’s hand when she saw her sorrowful face. “Speak child. Tell me what disturbs you,” she said.

Catalina lifted her chin, sucking in her top lip. She shook her head as if in sudden anger. “I cannot tell you...”

Beatriz gazed all around – only wide-eyed, listening Maria and the growing shadows kept them company. Beatriz squeezed Catalina’s hand. “You can.” She called Maria to her side. “Child, go to my chamber and get the book on my table. We might as well do our lesson here.”

Maria gone, Beatriz turned back to the infanta. “Tell me what troubles you.”

The blue shadows under her eyes speaking of her broken nights, Catalina took a long breath through her nose, and lowered her gaze. “My father is a liar,” she muttered, before clamping her mouth shut, screwing up her face, as if she tasted something vile.

Beatriz rubbed the side of her head.
So she knows
.
But what lie does she speak of?
She wondered if this intelligent child finally acknowledged her father’s mistresses. How could she not? At court, his bastards outnumbered those of his children born in wedlock. Beatriz shivered. She would rather not think about the king, ever. But she caught Catalina’s restless, unhappy gaze, and took a deep breath before posing her next question. “Are you talking about your father’s women?”

Catalina winced. “No. ’Tis more than that, Teacher,” she whispered. Bowing her head, she gnawed back and forth at her thumb knuckle.

“More? What more, child?”

Shielding her face with a hand, Catalina shook her head, making a tortured sound. “My father is a liar.” She gazed up with desperation, her eyes begging Beatriz to say otherwise. Beatriz looked away, fighting a temptation to lie herself, but unable to. “Why do you say this, Uno Piqueño?

Without meaning to, Beatriz called the girl the name used by the royal family. As the child’s tutor, she avoided using it. Catalina didn’t notice Beatriz’s slip of the tongue. Perchance it no longer mattered, and she didn’t care.

“It is not because of God he wants the Jews gone. My father wants the Jews’ gold.”

This did not surprise Beatriz. “That could not be your mother’s reason,” she said quietly.

Catalina shook her head. “My mother does this because she believes it’s God’s will, but not my father.” Catalina snatched Beatriz’s hand. “He must have good reason. Perchance he believes he does do it for God too, if pushing the Jews out makes his kingdom richer and stronger. ’Tis right that they do this for my brother – one kingdom is hard enough to rule, let alone two.”

“It could be that...” Beatriz chewed over what she knew of the king. Si, he hated the Jews. Si, wealth was important to him. He loved the power it gave to him. Whilst the queen built her whole life on serving God, the king built his on gold. No, she didn’t think King Ferdinand used religion for any other reason than as an excuse to achieve his own ends. But looking at Catalina, seeing how the child trembled, Beatriz stayed silent.

···

Not many days after this, an awful event caused Catalina to lock away her doubts about her father.

“Catalina!” With only one attendant behind her, Princess Isabel burst into the school-room. “Catalina!” Princess Isabel rarely raised her voice, but now she almost screamed. The princess looked white, her huge eyes wide with fear.

Catalina bounded up, her haste toppling over her stool. Wood resounded against the floor, the sound punctuating a moment of silence.

“Come.” Princess Isabel struggled to catch her breath. “’Tis Father... they have bought him to his chamber...” Isabel closed her eyes, her mouth moving as if in silent prayer, before looking again at her youngest sister. “An assassin tried to kill him. He is alive...” Princess Isabel raised her hand to rub at wet eyes. “Sister, our father is gravely wounded. Mother wants us with her. We must go.”

Deciding her place was with Catalina, Beatriz told Maria to stay in the library and practice her writing, Beatriz followed after Catalina and Isabel. The closer they came to the royal apartments, the closer to turmoil. Men scurried about and ran down the long corridor. Passing one of the royal physicians, Beatriz glanced into the silver bowl he carried. A blood soaked white doublet lay within it.

Outside the door of the king’s bedchamber, a crowd of courtiers stood close together. Seeing the daughters of the queen, they bowed and cleared a pathway to the closed doorway of the king’s most private room.

Beatriz gazed over her shoulder.
Should I go back?
She wished she could but, despite her hatred for the king, she couldn’t forsake Catalina. Following them, she closed the door after the princesses and froze. Beside the unconscious king the queen knelt holding his hand while her children huddled in a frightened knot behind her.

Arms up to his elbows covered in blood, Guadalupe, the king’s favourite and most trusted physician, bent over the bed, tying the bandage firmly across the padding on the king’s right shoulder and chest. A smaller, similar padding covered his neck. Blood seeped through the cloths. Guadalupe stood to his full height, rubbing his face with blood-spattered hands. “The wound’s serious, my queen. Four inches long and almost as deep. But I don’t believe it has touched the nerve and spine.”

The queen, keeping her eyes on the king’s face, whispered, “I must pray.” She clasped her hands. “Dear God, it is true kings die by accident like others. We believe we are ready to face death, but trials like this teach otherwise. God, in your mercy, do not let it be time for your servant, my husband, to be taken from us. God, do not take him from me...”

In the following days the queen and her children stayed by the king. His fever worsened until the day it gripped him utterly. Beatriz remained in the school-room. Never had she felt so conflicted. She did not care if she left the king’s physicians without the benefit of her expertise and advice. When she tried to pray with the court, knowing the crisis had come at last, the words were ash and meaningless in her mouth. She wanted to curl up on her bed and hide from the world.

Like most mornings the dawn song of birds woke Beatriz to a new day. For a time she lay in bed, fearing what this day would bring. Dressing, Beatriz stepped lightly to Catalina’s chamber. Disturbed at seeing only Maria sleeping in the bed with Catalina’s side untouched, she made her way back to the king’s apartments.