History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (27 page)

THE NIGHT OF PHILIP’S RETURN I ENTERED THE HALL ALONE.
Beatriz had begged me to let her go with me as she helped me dress. My choice of the same crimson gown that I had been violated in alerted her that whatever I planned, it couldn’t be good. But I ordered her and Soraya to stay behind. I also wore my hair loose and disdained all jewels. The bruises on my face had faded to faint yellowish discolorations; these were decoration enough.

Only a few astonished murmurs from those closest to the hall entrance greeted my appearance. No doubt everyone at court had heard by now of the altercation in my apartments and my seclusion, but I had deliberately come late. The tables were already drawn back for the dancing and everyone fast on their way to complete drunkenness. On the dais Philip’s chair was empty; at his left side, where Besançon had once sat, was Don Manuel. He looked up and froze, his protuberant black eyes bulging even more. He rose and started to scamper down the steps, shoving at the courtiers barring his way as if the floor under his little feet had taken flame.

I followed his intended direction to where my husband stood. Philip was flushed, a goblet in his hand as he guffawed with his men. Not too far away, seated in demure but prominent placement before the long, magnificent tapestries lining the hall, was the woman. Tonight, she wore an opalescent gown that had also belonged to me, altered to fit her larger bosom. Her hair—in truth, I thought, her only claim to beauty—fell in a contrived cascade of spun gold to her waist. She sat surrounded by ladies of questionable virtue, my pearls now coiled about her throat. As she gestured with her plump hands, I saw her gaze turn again and again to Philip.

Once again on her breast, she displayed my brooch.

I surveyed her from where I stood. Then I walked straight toward her, carving a path through the courtiers on the floor, smelling their rank sweat and musk but scarcely hearing their shrieking laughter and clang of goblets. As I neared her, I caught sight of Don Manuel breaking free from an inebriated lord who’d latched onto his sleeve to gabble in his ear. He was now rushing as fast as he could to Philip, his hands wagging in comical desperation. It made me want to laugh. He could have shouted to the eaves. With the music and other noises of carousing no one would hear him until it was too late.

I halted before her. She stood, her face blanching. Her lips were painted with carmine but not enough to disguise a small ugly sore at the corner of her mouth. The ladies around her gasped and drew back. It gratified me that I still commanded a level of respect.

“You wear something that does not belong to you,” I said.

She gaped at me. “Your Highness?”

“That brooch, it is mine. So are the gown and pearls. You will return them to me. Now.”

“Now?” Her voice was unpleasant, a shrill squawk, though perhaps this was due to her astonishment at my request.

“Yes.” I took a step closer. “Or would you rather I took them from you, madame?”

Her eyes widened. Then her mouth pursed in a knot and she spat: “I’ll do no such thing. These are a gift from His—”

I didn’t let her finish. I lunged at her and grabbed hold of the brooch, tearing it with an audible rip of silk from her bodice. She screamed, tumbling backward over her chair in a flurry of skirts. I grabbed hold of her by the hair, seeking the pearls. A clump of hair tore out in my hand. I looked at it, looked down at her. She was on her knees, scrambling to get away. I leaned over and seized another fistful of her hair, yanking her back. She fell face up, her white-stockinged legs splayed, her mouth letting out an incessant hysterical noise.

I gripped the pearls and twisted. Her scream became a choked cry as the pearls snarled about her neck. Then the clasp gave way and I held them in a tangled length, adorned with errant gold wisps of hair. A thrill went through me when I saw the bruise blooming about her throat. She threw her arms over her head, gasping as if she couldn’t get enough air. None of the ladies who only moments before had been fawning on her moved. They stood open-mouthed, aghast, like painted petrified statues.

I heard thunderous footsteps charge behind me. I turned to stare into Philip’s bloodshot eyes. At his side, Don Manuel glared at me like a troll in a children’s fable.

“Never again,” I said to him. “I will die before I do anything you want again.”

He bellowed, “Guards!” and the yeomen behind him pushed past the now-silent, horrified ranks of staring courtiers. “Take her. Lock her in her rooms. She is insane!”

I wrapped the pearls about my wrist as the guards surrounded me.

TWO WEEKS LATER, WORD CAME TO FLANDERS. MY MOTHER WAS DEAD.

TWENTY-TWO

“
P
rincesa? Princesa,
they are here. They await you in your presence chamber.”

I knelt on the prie-dieu. I had not spoken in days. I had not cried or crumbled into a heap. When Beatriz with tears in her eyes handed me my father’s letter, a brief but tender missive that promised to send further news through an embassy, I went into my bedchamber and closed the door. There in the darkness I prayed for my mother’s soul to rise far from this world.

“Go, Mamá,” I whispered. “Do not look back.”

The guards posted outside my apartment doors were dismissed, the illusion of my liberty restored. Then Philip came to see me. Though news of my mother’s death had plunged much of Europe into mourning, for she’d earned the respect of her fellow sovereigns if nothing else, he staggered in half-flown with wine. I lay rigid in bed, hearing his lurch across the dark room, Beatriz’s gasp as he kicked her awake on her truckle bed and ordered her out, followed by the shedding of his clothes and fumbling under the covers.

When I felt his hands on my thighs, pushing my nightshift up and parting my legs, it was all I could do not to scream in rage and revulsion. I loathed his touch now, the very smell and feel of him, when once he’d been all I ever wanted. I could not stop him, though. He would hurt me again if I tried to resist and I’d not give him the satisfaction. He came night after night, and I shut my eyes, fleeing my body as he thrust inside me. After he spent himself, he sauntered out proudly and I rose from bed to scrub myself with a cloth, wishing Doña Ana were still with me, for she’d have known the secret herb lore that could prevent conception.

His nocturnal visits were intentional, of course. I had no doubt Don Manuel had advised him to it. They wanted me with child. That way, I’d be more vulnerable to whatever they planned for me. Indeed, Don Manuel had the temerity to visit me by day, ostensibly to inquire if I needed anything during this time of grief, while eyeing me for a telltale pallor or sign of queasiness.

I ignored his blandishments, staring past him to the wall. Though the guards might be gone, the prison remained, and it was more effective than any locked door.

Already, I knew I had conceived.

Day after day I rose at dawn, forced myself to swallow the breakfast Beatriz brought, and went to the prie-dieu, where I remained until dusk, motionless and alone.

In those hours of solitude, I relived my past. I saw again that innocent girl entranced by the bats and recalled how my mother had seemed a near-divine being, so aloof I could never offer her something as fallible as love. I traveled again to Flanders, France, and back to Spain. I stood on the docks of Laredo and felt the reconciliation of a final farewell. I did not shed a single tear.

Beatriz now stepped to me. “
Princesa,
they bring news of His Majesty your father.”

Papá.

I turned to her. “Is it my father’s embassy?”

She nodded. “His Highness met with them before he departed for a meeting with his Estates. One of them was granted permission to see you. The others returned to Spain.” She paused. “It is Lopez. Will you receive him?”

Lopez: my mother’s secretary, whom I’d last seen at La Mota. Why was he here?

I rose on stiff legs. As I passed my mirror, I avoided the shiver in the glass. I went out into my main chamber and sat on my upholstered chair. I pulled my veil over my face. The curtains at the windows were drawn, filling the room with shadows.

Lopez entered, accompanied by Don Manuel. My chest tightened when I saw how old my mother’s devoted secretary had grown, his spine bowed as if by some inner grief. Recalling my harsh words to him in Spain, I gave a tentative nod. I did not want my past behavior to ruin our dealings now, not in front of Don Manuel.

“My lord,” I said to Lopez, “a terrible hour brings you here, but I am glad of you.”

He inclined his head. “Your Majesty,” he said and a jolt went through me. “Your Majesty, I offer you my sincere condolences.”

I swallowed, glanced at Don Manuel. He stared at me, a smug smile lurking just behind his thick lips. This creature of my husband’s was enjoying the farce.

“Please,” I said softly, “you mustn’t address me thus. I am still your princess, as I’ve not yet been sworn in by the Cortes and thus cannot receive the reverence given to my late mother.”

This, I noted in satisfaction, wiped the smile off that gloating toad’s face.

“Forgive me,” Lopez said. “I’ve no desire to further distress you,
princesa.
”

I experienced a sense of abrupt peril. “You do not. As difficult as my mother’s loss is, I’ve every intention of fulfilling my duties. I understand you bring word of my father?”

“Yes, of course.” Lopez reached into his doublet and withdrew a small velvet box. At that instant, I remembered my mother had entrusted Lopez with her codicil. This must be why my father had sent him. Papá knew he would not betray me.

Lopez knelt at my feet and lifted the box. “Your Highness, the Cortes of Toledo and His Majesty King Fernando order me to present you with the official signet ring of Castile. They ask that you make haste to Spain so you can be invested and crowned as sovereign queen.”

His declaration rang out with hollow impact. I took the box from him, opened it to find the chipped ruby ring that I had last seen on my mother’s hand. My throat closed. I could not move for what seemed an eternity, staring at that dull stone with its faded insignia of a castle and crown: the symbols of Castile, which had not left my mother’s hand since the day of her coronation. Slowly I removed it from the box and slipped it onto my right index finger, with it was said the vein ran straight to the heart.

I lifted my eyes to Don Manuel. He had not moved from his stance a short distance away from us, as if he sought to afford me a semblance of respectful privacy. His face was shuttered, unreadable. I had my mother’s ring. My father had summoned me. What would he do now? What would he tell Philip to do?

I returned to Lopez. His tired brown eyes remained fixed on me. There was something else he needed to say, something he dared not speak aloud.

“I do not wish to tire you,” he added. “I came only to present Your Highness with the ring and to say that if you have any needs I might serve, I am entirely at your disposal.”

The slight emphasis he placed on the word
needs
went unnoticed by Don Manuel, it seemed. The ambassador had looked down and was now regarding his cuticles in obvious boredom. It relieved me to note that in his arrogant urbanity he clearly didn’t think this elderly secretary and his archaic ceremony posed any real threat.

I said carefully, “I would like to dictate some letters to my mother’s servants, seeing as they served her for years and share in my grief.”

“It would be my honor,” Lopez replied. He turned to Don Manuel. “Her Highness has need of my secretarial services, señor. Does that meet with your approval?”

I saw Don Manuel hesitate, his eyes shifting from Lopez to me. He could hardly tell my expression under my veil but I hoped what he did see was a pathetic sight: a woman who had only recently been locked in her rooms without anyone of import to succor her. Treacherous turncoat that he was, he was also a Spaniard. He had to feign some modicum of respect for me, at least in the secretary’s presence. After all, I was, on paper at least, his queen.

I took advantage of his momentary indecision to motion to Beatriz, who stood waiting in a corner. “My lady can serve you refreshments in the antechamber if you care to wait, señor. I’m afraid these letters could take some time.”

Don Manuel stared hard at me. Then, with a glare, he gave a curt bow and retreated into the antechamber. As soon as Beatriz closed the door on him, I said to Lopez, “The ambassador cannot be trusted. He is entirely my husband’s creature.”

He looked over his shoulder and moved close to me. “I am aware of it. He’s been plotting without cease since your mother’s death to raise your husband above you.”

I stared at him. “Above me?”

“Yes. His Highness is calling himself the new king of Castile and heir apparent to Aragón.”

My stomach clenched. “I see. And what does my father have to say about it?”

“His Majesty is very perturbed. He’s doing his utmost to protect your throne.”

“But my mother made him governor of Castile. Whatever my husband may choose to call himself, without my and the Cortes’ approval surely Philip is nothing in Spain.”

“Alas, not all is as it should be.” He paused, eyeing me. I could see he had not forgotten my fury at La Mota. “Your Highness, I must ask that you remain calm. My news…it is disturbing.”

My hands knotted in my lap. “Go on.”

In a low voice he told me of the days following my departure from Spain, in which my mother had returned to Madrigal with my son. She feared for my safety, Lopez said, and her anxiety aggravated her condition. As she made her painstaking preparations for death, stipulating that her corpse be entombed in the cathedral in Granada, site of her greatest triumph, she received a letter from Philip and Don Manuel relating everything that had transpired since my return to Flanders, including my attack on my husband’s whore and imprisonment in my rooms.

“They claimed Your Highness was very ill and had gone so far beyond reason it was doubtful whether you’d ever be fit enough to rule. They asked Her Majesty to alter the succession in favor of Charles, in whose stead His Highness could govern until your son comes of age. As you can imagine, their letter greatly aggrieved Her Majesty.”

I had suspected this. From the moment I met him, I had sensed corruption in Don Manuel. With his expert knowledge of court intrigue, coupled with a lifelong courtier’s ambitions, he had divined the weakness in my husband’s character and stepped neatly into a dead man’s shoes. Still, that he had so callously and maliciously contrived to disturb my mother’s final days made my blood run cold with rage.

“Did…did she believe them?” I heard myself ask.

“No. But she wasn’t the only one to receive their letter. Don Manuel had copies sent to the Cortes and select high members of the nobility, including the Marquis of Villena, who hardly needs an excuse to commit treachery. He demanded audience with Her Majesty to discuss an alternate succession but Her Majesty refused him. By then, she was near death.”

He paused. When I did not speak, he went on.

“After Her Majesty’s death, His Majesty had to assume her burden. He deliberated long before choosing a course. Villena continued to demand an audience, but His Majesty, like Her Majesty before him, knew well who had advised your husband to this act. King Fernando bears the ambassador no love. Don Manuel has never been exemplary: indeed, he was instrumental years ago in thwarting Aragón’s request of help from the emperor against the French and has a reputation for venality. But at length His Majesty came to the conclusion that he must allow the
grandes
to vent their concerns. Never for an instant did he believe they had any grounds, but the matter begged a solution and he could think of no other.”

I remained absolutely silent for a long moment. Then I said quietly, “Are you telling me the Cortes and high nobles of Castile believe…I am insane?” As I spoke, I thought of the admiral. Had he heard these lies? The thought made a hollow of my chest.

“I fear so,” Lopez told me. “You must understand that King Fernando had no other option. The situation in Spain verges on catastrophic. Don Manuel has sent his sycophants throughout Castile to bribe the nobles, many of whom are defecting to your husband’s cause because he promises to restore the lands and privileges they were deprived of years ago by their Majesties. Some of these same
grandes
have gone even further and sent a petition to the Cortes asking that your father be ordered to abandon all further rights in Castile.”

I clenched my hands about my chair arms, as if to anchor myself in place. “It was my mother’s will that my father govern in my place until I claim my throne. He is her husband!”

“It stands to reason that if Your Highness is unfit to rule, then Her Majesty’s appointments are also under question. And in truth, His Majesty has no legal rights to the position he held as Her Majesty’s consort. With her death, he is but king of Aragón.”

I struggled to remain seated. My mother’s words returned to me, haunting in their assessment of the man who had become my enemy:
His lack of status festers in him like a wound. What I did with Fernando, what he accepted of me, Philip may not take so easily from you.

“They want to destroy my father,” I said aloud. “Don Manuel and Philip will use the noblity’s hatred of Papá against him to win the throne.”

“Yes,” said Lopez, “but there’s something neither His Highness nor Don Manuel anticipates—Her Majesty’s codicil. God rest her soul, she feared something like this might occur and she prepared a codicil she appended to her will. In it, she states that until the Cortes invest you as queen the archduke Philip has no claim to any title or revenue in Spain. Should Your Highness decide for whatever reason that you do not wish to rule, it is your father, King Fernando, not the archduke your husband, who will assume the throne as regent until Charles comes of age. His Majesty could use this codicil, should the need arise.”