History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (20 page)

I lowered my eyes. All of a sudden, I felt like weeping.

She said softly, “All your life since you were a child, you were my most gifted: the quickest at her studies, the most intelligent and capable, the one who rarely showed any fear. You would have gone to war against the Moors yourself if we’d let you, and yet when we triumphed only you showed compassion. Not even my poor Juan, may he rest in peace, had your strength, both of body and spirit. But you must believe it, Juana. You must believe in who you are. Only then can you become the queen I know you can be.”

I looked up. I saw in her eyes that she spoke with a newfound candor. For the first time in my life, my mother showed me her heart. Spain, her most precious possession, must remain safe after her death. She had sent me away, always demanded too much, and yet now she believed in me. She believed I could be queen.

Queen of Spain.

My mind spun. I did not know what to say. She regarded me closely, without any sign that she feared my answer. I finally nodded. “Yes. I will do it. I’ll do as you say.”

She sank against her chair. The fire in her eyes ebbed.
“Bien,”
she murmured. “Good. Go now,
hija mia.
I am tired. We will talk later.”

I rose, tears burning behind my eyes, and gently kissed her brow.

Only as I left the room did I realize that by agreeing to help my mother, I might be forced to make a terrible choice.

IN THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, MY PARENTS SET THEMSELVES TO TAKING
us on a tour of Castile. Besançon had been obliged to accept the offer to view some of Spain’s wealthier monasteries, no doubt at my parents’ instigation, and had departed with a sour moue on his face, while we left Toledo for the imposing cliff-side Alcázar in Segovia and the enchanting filigree-stone palace of Aranjuez.

My father and Philip went hunting daily with their retinues and hawks, leaving my mother and me to sit under the lime trees in the gardens with our women. To my disconcertment, my mother did not utter a word about the matters she’d first discussed with me in private; it was almost as though we’d reverted to the days of my childhood, when she’d surrounded herself with me and my sisters to share daily tasks. Her women asked me about my children and life in Flanders and listened keenly to my replies, particularly my descriptions of the luxury of the palaces and the fantastic plethora of art. I told them how much I missed my children but how they were healthy and flourishing, as evidenced by a letter recently received from Doña Ana. Then I’d glance at my mother in her upholstered chair, her perennial embroidery in her lap, and see her gaze had turned inward, as though she were thousands of leagues away. I could not tell if she was hiding her disappointment that I’d not brought my children with me or whether something deeper, more ominous troubled her. Whichever the case, my trepidation and worry only increased as the days went by without anything of import developing.

At night in our rooms, I queried Philip about his talks with my father, thinking one of them must have broached the French alliance by now. He said there had been no such discussions; indeed he seemed blissfully unaware of any tension whatsoever. Apparently he and Papá shared only a masculine joy in the hunt, and he declared his enchantment with the way our gentlemen rode with their stirrups drawn high to the saddle,
a la jinete;
the forbidding strength of our citadels and the abrupt changes from stony field to profuse forest. The land, he said, was so immense, astoundingly fertile yet underutilized; were it farmed properly, we could feed nations.

His exertions by day made him lazily amorous by night. As he slowly moved inside me, the candle at our bedside slithering our shadows over the ceiling, I took comfort that while I still failed to lure him into more serious discussion, he appeared in no hurry to leave and indeed seemed to be enjoying himself.

On the evening before we were due to return to Toledo to meet with Besançon and my family’s council (for with the sightseeing at an end, the true nature of our business must rise to the fore), Philip insisted on donning a plum velvet suit slashed with cloth of gold, a garish costume compared with my parents’ simple wool garments. The early summer heat had arrived: it was sweltering even within the palace, and I opted for a sedate blue gown, though Philip cajoled me into wearing the sapphires he’d given me on the occasion of Eleanor’s birth, one of the few jewels besides my mother’s ruby I felt I might safely bring on the trip.

When we entered the hall, we found Moorish sandalwood screens partitioning it into an intimate chamber. The established company of lords and courtiers was absent; instead, the table was set for four, though with an unexpected magnificence that made Philip’s eyes widen. Solid silver urns the size of small towers stood at either side of the buffet; the lace tablecloth offered a perfect display for the wide silver platters rimmed with gems and chased gold goblets. I stole a look at my mother; she returned a serene smile. I knew at once that while she’d appeared to drift into contemplation during our afternoons in the gardens, she had noted everything I’d said. Tonight she endeavored to show off her own wealth and luxury, which meant something was about to transpire, as these treasures were usually in safekeeping in Segovia and must have been brought here for a purpose.

Servitors brought us delicate fresh-caught quail cooked in pomegranate sauce, river trout with almonds, and bowls of greens. Philip dug in with his usual appetite: he hadn’t taken at first to our custom of eating steamed vegetables covered in olive oil, but soon discovered that the absence of the heavy sauces the Flemish bathed everything in enhanced the food’s flavor.

As a page began filling our goblets with a rich Rioja wine, my father said, “Well, then, shall we discuss your French alliance?” and I froze in my chair.

Philip looked up, a knifed piece of quail halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“The French betrothal,” said my father. His jawbone edged. “Surely, you didn’t think we brought you and my daughter all this way to give over Spain to the Valois? You must repudiate it,” he added bluntly. “Louis of France looks every day to stealing our possessions in Italy. This alliance undermines our credibility and delays your investment as our heirs.”

My mother did not move, her eyes fixed on Philip.

“And I,” said my husband coldly, “did not come all this way to be dictated to. I told you before, this alliance brings me benefit. As archduke of Flanders, I’ll not go back on my word.”

“Yet as the future king consort of Spain, you must,” interposed my mother, as my father’s face darkened. “Fernando has attempted numerous times these past weeks to advise you that your alliance with our foe will not be tolerated. Neither Cortes will invest you unless you do as we say. And I, my lord, will certainly never entrust my throne to one who cannot recognize the difference between us and that nation of liars and wolves.”

Philip dropped his knife with a clang to his platter. He shot a vicious look at me. “Besançon was right,” he hissed. “You’ll see me to ruin!” He came to his feet, tipping his chair over. “Absolutely not,” he told my mother. “I am a Habsburg, with my own duties to consider. I am not your puppet, madame, nor will I surrender sovereignty to my wife. You are no longer in any position to negotiate. If you do as I say, perhaps then I will consider reviewing the terms of my alliance with King Louis. Until then, it stands as written.”

He walked out, leaving us sitting there, the liveried page with the decanter frozen in place. The roast capon I’d been eating acidified in my stomach. I started to say something, anything, to fill the dreadful hush. My mother slumped in her chair; as one of her women rushed over to attend her, ashen pallor spread across my father’s face. He turned to my mother. She nodded, pressed a hand to her breast. With the help of her woman, she rose and left the hall as if the eaves had come crashing down around her. She did not look at me once.

My father did. His stare went through me. I whispered, “
Dios mio,
what just happened?”

“Your husband is a mule,” he replied, “not fit to wear a yoke, much less the crowns your mother and I have defended our entire lives. But he is right. We are in no position to negotiate, not now.” His voice caught. “We received terrible news a few days ago. We tried to keep it secret, in the hope we might bring your husband to reason. It seems he found out anyway, probably through one of those daily missives that damn Besançon has been sending him.”

He paused. The hand he set on the table clenched into a fist. I stood. “Papá, what has happened? Please, tell me.”

“Prince Arthur Tudor is dead,” he said, and for a second I didn’t understand what he was saying. When I did, a gasp escaped me. “Catalina’s husband?”

“Yes. We’ve lost the English alliance. Your sister is a widow. Now we must order our court into mourning and pray we can salvage something out of this nightmare.”

I was stunned silent. When I saw his left eye quiver, I felt I might be sick. “There’s something else,” I said. “Something you’re not telling me.”

My father gave a mirthless chuckle. “Oh, yes. It seems Philip of Flanders doesn’t want to be invested as prince consort of Spain anymore. No, he says we must amend our succession so that when we die, he will succeed as king. Your husband, Juana, would have your throne.”

I RETURNED TO OUR CHAMBERS
, opening the door to find Philip in his shirt, his doublet yanked open and trampled on the floor. When he saw the look on my face, he quaffed his goblet and went straight to the cabinet. Grabbing the decanter, he poured wine into his cup. He started to gulp, then threw the cup aside, spraying wine from his mouth.

“Vinegar! It’s turned to pure vinegar! Christ, even the wine rots in this hellish place.” He strode to the casement, flung open the window. “And the heat, it’s intolerable.” He whirled to me. “It’s as hot at midnight as it is at midday.”

“I know how hot it is.” I met his stare. “Summer is starting.” I closed the door. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you ever going to tell me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start with me. I’ve had enough Spanish recriminations to last me a lifetime—every bloody hour at the hunt, every hour on the way back, every minute of every day. Always the same tiresome adage.” His voice adopted a mocking severity. “ ‘You must repudiate the French alliance. Spain will never allow it.’ Well, damn your father and damn Spain. I’ve had enough; Besançon has had enough. It’s time your parents learned I am not some stupid boy they can manipulate at will.”

“I don’t give a fig for Besançon,” I retorted. “Weeks have gone by and not once did you say anything to me of this. I warned you they wouldn’t take the French betrothal kindly but you didn’t listen. And now look at us: at odds with my parents in their time of grief—”

“When have they not been in grief?” he interrupted, with a callous laugh. “Death loves their company, it seems.” He tallied with his fingers. “Let’s see: First, there was your sister Isabella’s first husband, who broke his neck while riding. Then your brother dies after a brief union with my sister, only to be followed by Isabella herself, her baby son, and now your sister Catalina’s prince. One might say the House of Trastámara and marriage are a lethal combination.”

I took an angry step to him. “Do you care so little for my family that you’d mock us?”

“I speak the truth. We Habsburgs prefer not to hide behind false piety and abstention.”

“
You
speak the truth?” I said, incredulous. “You plotted behind my back with Besançon to betroth our son and have deliberately deceived me this entire time. You told my parents to name you king in the succession, though you know it is beyond their power to do so, that their Cortes will never permit it. If this is Habsburg honesty, then I pray God spare us from its treachery.”

He went still, his mouth twisting. I had not expected to say these words, but I found as I lifted my chin that I did not regret them. I too had had enough. Did he think I would stand by and do nothing while he flouted my parents and made mayhem with our lives?

“Treachery,” he spat, “is what you and their Catholic Majesties plan!” He flung his words like weapons. “This visit to be invested by their Cortes is a lie. Your mother has no intention of making you heir, much less letting you rule when she’s dead. She wants a prince she can mold as she sees fit. So she delays our investiture in the desperate hope that if we get tired or bored enough, we’ll get down to business and send for our son.”