Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (27 page)

Half-rolling onto her back, she stared into the darkness, the awful nothingness above suffocating and oppressing her. Silently she railed at fate and the injustice of life. Like the king she hated, Beatriz did not understand God’s purpose. Catalina and Maria both restless but still sleeping, she swung from the bed and lit another candle to leave at the door before going outside.

The inner doors of Catalina’s chamber opened into the walled courtyard, shared with a few, fortunate others on the women’s side of the royal chambers. Beatriz pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the black velvet night, seeking its embrace and comfort.

All her life, nature lifted her moments of sadness. The sudden trill and thread of birdsong, rain soughing after the heat of a summer’s day, the gold-spun gloaming cast upon a garden. Nature renewed her and strengthened her faith, for in all such moments she felt God Himself holding her in his embrace.

Beatriz had never before doubted or questioned God, only owning the truth of human fallibility. But tonight her despair was such she entered a black valley of doubt, doubt leaving her tottering at its crumbling edge. Blinded by grief and anguish, she desperately sought for light to show her the way to step away from the edge.

Barefoot, almost welcoming the cold piercing the soles of her feet, she trod carefully on the night-damp, mossed-covered stone steps to the thick carpet of grass edging the courtyard’s garden. She found herself in another world – a grey world lit by moonlight that, even so, was beautiful.

The huge full moon painted the stones of the palace’s walls, grey by day, to luminous white and delineated the grove of tall poplars as if brushed white by an artist’s hand. She halted on the steps, the moonlight pooling over her its scorn. How dare she recognise and acknowledge beauty with Prince Juan dead, and his young body food for worms?

“Latina!” Barefooted too, Catalina approached her, her mantle’s hood settled upon her shoulders. Upon it, her unbound hair curled in heavy ringlets before disappearing down her back. Hair and mantle billowing out in a gust of strong wind, she moved towards Beatriz. Suddenly the bright moonlight outlined her naked, child-like form beneath her white shift. Beatriz was suddenly aware of freezing feet, and shivered. The thinness of her own shift offered no protection from the night.

Reaching Beatriz, Catalina took hold of her hand. She tutted, wrapping her thick mantle around them. “Latina – out here alone, on a cold night like this! You should know better. We need no more illness.” Letting go of her attempt of maturity, Catalina lay her head upon her breast. Beatriz felt her chemise become wet with the infanta’s tears.

Beatriz tightened her hold. “You’re not alone in your sorrow. We all loved your brother.”

Moonbeams cast Catalina in blue light, turning her into a living, moving statue of marble. “Why did he have to die?”

Beatriz sighed. Of all the questions Catalina had asked her since she was five, this one was the hardest to answer. “Uno Piqueño, who is not Uno Piqueño any more, I wish I had the words to comfort you. But ’tis a hard lesson we learn, so many times – life gives to take away.”

Catalina shifted as if in anger. “Then life is cruel,” she sobbed.

Beatriz kissed the top of her head. “Well and good, my child, you learn that at twelve. I learnt it long before that, before I could barely speak. But there’s another side to life giving comfort. Surely all of us are richer for having had the prince in our lives, even if it means bearing his loss.”

Catalina wiped her cheek on Beatriz’s chemise. “That’s no comfort, not when I will grieve for him for the rest of my days.”

Beatriz let out a ragged sob. “You’re such a young maid. Time will dull this grief until it becomes as distant as the moon that shines down on us tonight.” She sighed. “I cannot say the same for the queen. Joy has left her forever. I am so worried for your mother.”

“Father is broken-hearted, too”

“Si. The king too.” Beatriz threaded her arm through Catalina’s, leading her back up the steps to the royal chambers. “But he has other sons, all bastards, si, but soon this knowledge will console him. Shortly he returns to the battlefield. Action – dealing out life or death – will make him put aside his grief. But your poor mother... She has lost her only son... a son who died lacking his mother’s final kiss. She was not even there when they laid his body in its tomb. I think we will find all her mortal joy lies entombed at Salamanca. Come, let us leave the chill of this sad, sad night.”

Seeing as God made you without
peer
In goodness of heart and goodness of speech,
Nor is your equal anywhere to be found,
My love, my lady, I hereby tell
you:
Had God desired to ordain it so,
You would have made a great
king.
~ King Dinis of Portugal of his wife Isabel, d. 1325

Dear love,

Pray come soon. I need your strength – and your arms around me. I do not know how to bear these sad days. The loss of Prince Juan strikes us all deep, the sorrow for his death like a strangling winding cloth on all our spirits, the family I serve most of all. I so yearn for your comfort,
Francisco…

J
uan’s heart-broken wife returned to court very changed from the gay, vibrant princess farewelled at Salamanca. She came not only bearing her own heavy, sorrow but also the hopes of Castilla and Aragon in her swelling belly. Hopes too soon come to nought. Two months after the prince’s death, Margot’s labour began.

Too early for the birth of a living child, the princess fought her pangs of childbirth like a crazed woman. Helping the midwives in the birthing chamber, when nothing more could be done to prevent the inevitable, Beatriz turned her face and wept, hearing the princess beg and plead, “Do anything!” she sobbed. “Oh God, oh God! Don’t take our child away too!”

On the morning of the third day, as dawn broke, Beatriz came to the queen’s chamber. Still spattered with blood, she wobbled an exhausted curtsey. When she stood, she gripped her forearms, trying to hold herself her together. The queen waved a hand towards the stool near her. Sitting, Beatriz met the queen’s eyes.

“Speak, Beatriz.”

“’Twas a girl-child, Your Grace...” Beatriz swallowed, realising how long it was since liquid had passed her lips. “My queen, there was never hope to bring forth a living child, not at six months. The babe’s heartbeat stopped in the womb last night. We said nothing of this to Princess Margot, but she knew. The princess lost all heart and went into a stupor. It forced us to act for the princess’s only chance for life this morning. We pulled the dead babe from her womb. God help and forgive us, ’twas the only thing we could do. My queen, if the princess survives and marries again, ’tis doubtful she will bear another child.”

Sweet Francisco,

Will these dark days ever end? The loss of our princess’s child was terrible enough, but it resulted in a dreadful power struggle: the husband of Juana seized the opportunity to proclaim them both the queen’s heirs. Such a despicable action of Philip the Fair – a man whose nickname seems more and more an ill-thought jest.

Queen Isabel summoned her daughter Isabel to come in person and ensure her rights of succession. Isabel was then five months gone with child,
and it upset our queen greatly to have to beg her daughter to journey such a distance.

At Toledo, Queen Isabel’s Cortes, the parliament of her nobility, proclaimed Isabel the heir to Castilla, but the Cortes of Aragon still stubbornly holds on to its desire for male ascension. To persuade them otherwise, the king and queen sent again for the young Queen of Portugal. King Ferdinand believed this was the only course of action to convince the Aragonese. How the queen hated to summon her daughter back to her court. Since Isabel’s return to Portugal, the reports of her health have gone from bad to worse. Now the subjects of her father forced Isabel to endure yet another hard, long journey, this time to Zaragoza, far from the Portugal border, when all her physicians advise otherwise.

“My hija must conserve her strength. It would be more glorious and would cost me less to bring these people to the right by force of arms, rather than suffer their insolence,” my queen fumed, her voice as cold as steel, to the kneeling Alonso de Fonseca, after he brought word from the king.

I saw Fonseca cross himself. His long, narrow face hardening, he lifted his chin and said: “Your Highness, if the Queen of Portugal wishes to be recognised as her father’s heir, she must come. The Aragonese will prove constant to the monarch to which they swear.”

We leave soon for Zaragoza, my love…

Two weeks later, Beatriz rode her mule behind the royal family to the Aljafería, leaving Margot behind in Sevilla. Still grieving for the loss of both husband and child, she had yet to find reason to regain her health after the birth. She was so unwell the queen and king put off all decisions regarding her future, not knowing if she would ever recover.

The summer alcázar of the kings of Aragon spread out its certain claim upon the highest hill in Zaragoza. Struggling up to reach it, Beatriz’s tiring mule refused to lumber forward beyond what seemed a snail’s pace. Exhausted too from the long journey and disinclined to use her whip on her poor beast, Beatriz studied the beautiful alcázar
.
Two circular greyish white towers at either side its entrance and similar round towers broke up the curve of strong walls. The alcázar seemed strong and impregnable, yet Christian victory had banished the Moors hundreds of years ago. On a far smaller a scale than other residences of the king and queen, this had once been the home of Saint Isabel. Eager to come to the end of her journey, Beatriz shivered, touched with forewarning.

···

Afternoon light crowning their veiled heads anew with gold, two black-robed queens walked arm-in-arm in the walled courtyard. Sunlight filtered through the decorative stone of the high arches and their filigree collars of lace, throwing out a dappled design of shadows upon the ground and into the building’s interior.

Not long come from devotions in the tiny church belonging to the alcázar, once used as a mosque centuries ago, Beatriz sat with the infanta Maria, and her duena on the stone bench sewing, while Catalina and Maria sat on another bench close by. The girls no longer even pretended to read the books selected for their study. Beatriz heard Catalina speak to Maria. “What do you think they’re saying to one another?”

Maria shrugged, kicking the dead leaves in front of her, as if attempting to clear the paved footpath. “How would I know?” Putting out her leg, she rolled her ankle, looking at her new black slipper, its thin red ribbon criss-crossed her ankle before the final tie. Both slipper and ribbon made Maria’s foot and ankle seem narrower, perchance even dainty. Maria eyed Catalina. “Whatever it is, they don’t want us to overhear.”

Catalina lifted her eyebrows as if surprised. Her eyebrows recently thinned like the older women at court, it gave her face a strange flicker of maturity. Beatriz finger followed the high arch of her own eyebrow, courtly camouflage veiled both youth and age.

“You were not the only one dismissed by my royal mother. Isabel is my sister and I have missed her every day since she left for Portugal. I have hardly spoken to her since she arrived.”

Beatriz gazed at the two queens, their backs turned towards her. The paved, narrow footpath led around the courtyard’s whole circumference as well between the twin rectangular gardens. Queen Isabel and her eldest daughter reached the other side, changing her view of them. Too far away to hear other than the murmur of their voices, Isabel’s huge eyes locked on her mother. She nodded at something the queen said.

Beatriz worried again about Isabel’s thinness. With the young queen so slender, her huge belly appeared grotesque. Chilled despite the warmth of this spring day, Beatriz returned her gaze to Catalina. Beside her Maria was kicking the leaves again.

Catalina shook Maria’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

Maria met her eyes, looking like she wanted to weep. The prince’s death, soon followed by that of his child, swirled everyone’s emotions too close to the surface. For months now they had struggle to reclaim and piece back together their lives after grief and more grief tore it into shreds. Beatriz sighed.
How many times is life’s fabric
undone?

Maria stared at the ground. No leaves left for her to kick, she gazed back at Catalina. “I wish we were not here – anywhere, but here.”

“But why? You’ve always liked it here!”

Perturbed, Beatriz wondered if Maria too had caught the same sense of impending disaster she had felt on coming here. She turned her attention to the courtyard. Sunlight slanted over the roof, deluging the small trees sculptured like huge globes. Losing none of its power, the afternoon light struck the water fountain at one side, sparkling the jets of water into crystals. Backed by a sapphire sky, a small bird, with a flutter of brown wings, hopped along the edge of the roof, stopping now and then to look around for foes, raking its beak upon stone. Nothing seemed to threaten them here. But Beatriz felt threatened. Day-by-day, she felt threat’s shadow deepen and lengthen.

“Our ancestor haunts this place,” Maria said. As if shocked at her own words, the girl’s teeth clamped down upon her bottom lip.

“What’s wrong with you today? You talk like a fool. And which forbear do you speak of? So many of our family lived here.”

“You should know. This courtyard was once hers, the place she spent her childhood. Always the queen has held Isabel, so long ago Queen of Portugal, up to you and your sisters. Always, it made me uneasy.”

“Uneasy? Why uneasy about Isabel of Portugal? Surely a saint amongst our forebears is reason for pride. She would not haunt us. Why should she?”

Maria tossed back her head. “If she does not haunt you that does not mean she doesn’t haunt someone else. You know as well as I, since her first husband’s death, all Isabel has wanted was to be like this other Isabel...”

Catalina paled. Studying her older sister she shook her head.

“Maybe once, but you forget that our ancestor was an old woman when she took the veil, after her husband’s death. Her children were grown. Now, thank God, my sister has the same chance to become a mother.”

Beatriz also lifted her eyes to the young queen. Yet again, with her back towards her, she reminded her of a thin, straight stick. There was nothing to her but black robes and huge belly.

“Cannot you see?” Maria asked, holding her friend’s hand. “Nothing really has changed for her. Too many times she smiles at us as if she is not really here, even to the queen, your mother. ’Tis as if she moves through life just to reach the day of death.”

Catalina snatched her hand away. “Don’t say that.”

Maria lowered her head and shrugged. “You said you always want me to speak honestly to you. I know your sister almost as well as you. She has never hidden from us what is in her heart.”

Catalina rubbed at her eyes. “There’s the babe. When Isabel holds her child, she’ll no longer think of death.”

Maria clasped again Catalina’s hand. Feeling cold, Beatriz sat in silence, left to the harsh mercy of her thoughts.

···

Am I a fool with all this disquiet about impending doom?
Beatriz wondered the next day. For in the garden the young queen sat and smiled amongst them, busily sewing a baptism robe for her unborn infant. Talking about her new life in Portugal, she reminded Beatriz of the less dark-spirit Isabel at the onset of her first marriage to Alfonso. Her free hand resting on her swollen stomach, Isabel smiled tenderly. “My little son is restless. He knows his father will arrive here soon. Manuel will not miss our boy’s birth.”

Catalina and her sister Maria lounged against large cushions set upon a rug near Isabel. Beatriz sat with Maria de Salinas on the thick, lush grass. The infanta Maria reached over, plucking a few camomile daisies. Crushing the flowers in her hand, she brought them to her nose and closed her eyes.

Beatriz plucked a daisy too. Placing it face up on her palm, she spread out its petals, reminded of a golden sun, its centre gloriously yellow, rays white with heat. Hearing the infanta Maria’s sudden bell of laughter, she raised her eyes. The girl knelt at Isabel’s side, their heads close together, comparing the tiny baby clothes they made. Flowing free from under her black, unadorned roundlet, Maria’s long blonde hair gleamed with red lights, contrasting vividly against her sister’s black veils.

Seeing them close together always made Beatriz very aware of their similarities. Isabel’s veils hid a similar glorious hair colour to her younger sister, and their eyes were of the same deep green/blue. Except for Juana, all the queen’s daughters bore the strong physical stamp of their mother. As for the mental stamp... Beatriz thought again about the infanta Maria. Happy just to be and live, Maria never seemed to share the same stubborn fire of faith of her three sisters and her mother.

Catalina shifted, righting herself to her knees. Leaning closer to her older sister, she touched the swaddling clothes in Isabel’s hand.

“They’re so small, sister. You forget how little babes are until you ready garments for their birth.” Catalina glanced at the blanket held in her hand. Hours of painstaking embroidery brought the coat of arms of Portugal nearer to completion, a red shield with yellow castles all around, set in the midst of a yellow circle. Now she sewed the final smaller blue shields upon the white shield in the centre. “Would it matter so much if your child is female? I would welcome a niece as much as a nephew.”

Isabel laughed, shadows deepening the hollows of her face. “You would be singing a different tune if you were the one awaiting childbirth. I would not be too pleased to go through all this trouble, all the days of illness, just to bring forth a girl-child. Especially remembering how much trouble being a girl-child brought me. Being female is not something I would ever wish for my child.”

Maria narrowed her eyes against the light. “You seem so certain the child will be a boy. Surely, ’tis not for us to know the sex of our children before birth, and girls must be born, no matter our desire.”

Isabel considered Maria, drumming fingers against the side of her taut gown. “You’re right, girls must be born. But I feel certain I bear within me a son. I have felt like this ever since I first felt the child quicken with life.” She laughed a little. “You know I am rarely wrong.”