History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (39 page)

I had no idea why I asked this. I must have sought to expunge my own heart, to scare away my fears with the thought that I was my father’s daughter and had only done what was necessary. I knew that had I not acted as I did, Philip would have destroyed Spain. But there were still nights when I woke gasping, seeing again my hands as they coldly crumbled the herbs into powder and sprinkled it into the wine, watching it float like smoke for a moment before it blended with the red liquid. How else could I have known that those herbs grabbed in a moment of terror would do my bidding? How had I known that with a mere two goblets, I would be freed of Philip’s tyranny forever? How else had I found the strength to kill my husband?

He stepped close to me. “Do you truly think me capable of such a deed?”

“He said he was poisoned,” I replied. “I heard him tell Philip. Philip believed him.”

My father’s eyes turned hard. “Then your husband was almost as much a fool as that old archbishop. I don’t much care either way what they believed. But in answer to your question, no, I did not poison him. Though Christ only knows if anyone deserved it, that man did.”

I fought back a rush of conflicting emotions. How could I have doubted him? Had I lost so much of myself that I had ceased to trust my own father? And yet his answer unsettled me. I could never tell him the truth now. I could never confess what I had done.

It was a deed I must carry forever, to atone for on the day of my own death.

“Forgive me,” I murmured, averting my eyes. “I…I had to ask.”

He leaned to me, cupped my chin. “Besançon died by God’s hands, not mine, just like your husband—which is a form of justice in and of itself, eh?”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose it is.”

“Good. I could not bear it if you thought ill of me.” He turned away. I thought he might pour himself more wine. Instead, with his back to me he said without warning, “I too have a question now. Do you wish to rule as queen?”

I hesitated, quelling the immediate urge to say yes, to take on my own burdens and steer the path of my destiny from this day forth. I had experienced too much to succumb to another potentially devastating mistake made in heated pride, particularly one that could cost me everything I’d fought to obtain. The truth was, not even my mother had ascended the throne alone. She had already wed my father, who helped her win Castile from her foes, and they had initiated their reign together. Spain had never had a widowed sovereign queen before.

“I do wish to rule,” I finally said. “But I know many would prefer one of my sons on the throne. You ruled Castile with Mamá for years. What do you advise?”

A pensive silence followed my words. Then he laughed shortly. “I can’t pretend to advise anyone. I’ve made too many mistakes. Besides, you’ve been forced into too many decisions that were not your own. You should decide now what is best for you.”

“Very well, then. Then what about the codicil?”

His brow furrowed. “Codicil?”

“Yes. The one Mamá left. It stated you would rule Castile as regent until I was invested as queen. Its terms are still valid, are they not?”

He rubbed his bearded chin. “I don’t know. She originally devised it because she feared your husband would seize everything for himself. Now that he’s dead, I’m not sure if it applies.”

“What if we altered it, then? Aragón and Castile should stay united. I could give you a premier place on my council, Papá. You needn’t leave again. We could rule as father and daughter, rid Castile of the last of the Flemish, and see the Cortes summoned for my coronation.”

His smile was odd, a mere curve of his lips. “Are you saying you never intend to wed again?”

“Never,” I replied. “I have my children and my kingdom. I don’t need anything else.”

“You say that now, because you are tired. But you are young. The flesh has its needs.”

“I am done with all that. There isn’t a man alive I could wish for as a husband.”

But as I spoke, I thought of the admiral, of his compassion and his strength, of his unswerving loyalty. It was unthinkable, of course. The
grandes
would never allow one of their own to rule over them. Yet I couldn’t deny the emotions that had taken seed in me, born of the despair and torment of these last years with Philip. If I had the choice, the admiral was the man I would want. He, I would make king.

My father said, “You are aware there could be trouble? Any assumption of power on my part might make matters worse.”

“How can they get any worse?” I stood, rounded the table. “For the past six years, I’ve been a prisoner.” My voice broke. “I don’t trust the nobles, Papá. I don’t trust Cisneros. Each plotted against me in one way or another. Only the admiral has been steadfast; only he showed me any care. With you and him beside me, we can bring the
grandes
to task. You know them. You earned their fear during your time as king with Mamá. You can help me do it now.”

“I appreciate your trust in me,
madrecita,
” he said in a low voice, “but you give me too much credit. I am older now. I am not the angry young king I was when I married Isabel.”

I searched his eyes. “Are you saying you can’t do it, or you won’t?”

He sighed—a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “For you, I will do it. For you, I’ll deal with the
flamencos
and the noble lords of Castile who hate me as they hate little else. But I’ll need your consent if they make a move against me. The last thing I want is Villena or another of those wolves coming at me with an army at his back. I cannot summon men to arms in Castile. The Cortes took that power away from me when they sided with your husband, though by your mother’s codicil I was granted it in perpetuity.”

“I shall restore it to you,” I said firmly. “It will be my first act as queen.” I felt hope. I could do this. I could be the queen my mother had wanted me to be. Castile would be mine.

He met my gaze. “Are you certain this is what you want? You have time to think it over.”

“I’ve never been more certain. It’s not what I want, Papá, but what Spain needs. Mamá made you regent until I could claim my throne. She trusted you. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Very well, then. Together, we’ll set Castile to rights.” He kissed my lips. “And we’ll start by finding you a suitable place to live, where you can recover your strength and I can ride to you at a moment’s notice.” He hugged me close, as he had so many times when I’d been a child. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am,” I heard him say. “I dreaded the thought of leaving you again.”

I closed my eyes, abruptly overcome by fatigue, all the tension and fear and doubt seeping from me. I needed to rest, to come to terms with these welcome, but abrupt, changes in my life.

“I am tired, Papá. Will you stay here tonight? I’ve readied a room for you.”

He smiled. “I wish I could. But Cisneros is no doubt pacing his room in town at this very moment, wondering what we’re talking about. I want to surprise him with the good news.” He tweaked my cheek. “I’ll come first thing tomorrow. I’ve yet to see my new granddaughter.”

I laughed. “She’s still a baby, but she looks just like Catalina.”

“Then you named her well.” He went still, looking at me as though he sought to engrave my face in his memory. “Rest well,
madrecita,
” he said, and then he turned and strode out.

As I climbed the stairs to my chamber, I could barely keep my eyes open. I checked on Catalina, whom I found sprawled in her crib, Doña Josefa slumbering in a chair beside her.

My ladies waited for me. They helped me undress without speaking, sensing my need for quiet. Snuggling naked between crisp linens, in a few seconds I succumbed to sleep.

I did not wake once. And I did not dream.

THIRTY-TWO

M
y father came to me the next day. He declared himself delighted with little Catalina, who gurgled and sucked on his thumb. After she was taken away for her nap, he and I ate on the patio and strolled in the walled garden, enjoying the benevolent summer dusk.

He spoke of the many obstacles he would face in the coming months, not the least of which was persuading the nobles to join him in routing Don Manuel. I learned to my outrage that the treacherous ambassador had snuck back into Burgos and seized the castle there, installing himself like a feudal warlord with his mercenaries. Papa said the constable was already on his way there to raise his men, and he was confident others would join, for if there was one thing in which the nobles were united it was their hatred of Don Manuel.

I insisted he have Cisneros officially draw up our agreement for my signature. I had my mother’s ring but didn’t yet possess an official seal, so my father brought me the one she had used. I had seen that worn cylindrical stamp on my mother’s desk many times, and I felt she was with me in spirit as I stamped the parchment that restored my father’s powers in Castile.

In a carefully orchestrated ceremony, Villena, Benavente, and the other
grandes
who had flocked to Philip’s standard came before me to beg forgiveness for the wrongs committed in my name. I had no choice but to pardon them, though I winced as Cisneros bowed low over my hand, his eyes like smoldering coals when he lifted them to me. Despite my father’s assurances that the archbishop had rallied to him “like a well-trained hound,” I would never trust him.

In early September my father located the perfect place for me to hold my court—a royal palace in the township Arcos, a mere two-day ride to Burgos. Winter approached and with the lords’ support my father had assembled the troops he needed to fight Don Manuel. Word had already gotten out of his impending march on the city and those Flemish courtiers not beholden to Don Manuel had fled with pieces of Philip’s household gold stuffed in their satchels. Several were arrested; others, however, reached port and commandeered a ship to return to Flanders.

“If we want to catch Don Manuel,” my father laughed, “we’d best be about it before he too finds himself a hole to hide in.”

He looked as if he’d shed years, the impending war bringing a gleam to his slanted eyes and bloom to his bronzed cheeks. He chuckled as I fumed over Don Manuel’s insolence. “Chains are what he deserves,” I declared, “and a dungeon to keep him in them!”

“And so it shall be,” he replied. “Now set your ladies to packing. I’ve a surprise for you.”

WE MADE THE TWO-DAY TRIP
to Arcos in the blessed cool of the night. Flambeaux illumined our passage, and peasants and hamlet dwellers materialized from the shadows to witness the sight of their new queen riding beside the old king, followed by our train of nobles and clerics escorting the bier upon which rested Philip’s coffin.

Women knelt in the dust; men doffed their caps. A group of children ran up to me in the middle of the road, braving the horses’ hooves to thrust brittle autumn wildflowers and clumps of chamomile into my hands.
“Dios la bendiga, Su Majestad,”
they said breathlessly. “God bless Your Majesty!”

Leaning from his stallion, my father murmured, “They love you well,
madrecita,
just as they loved your mother,” and I clutched those simple offerings as if they were precious jewels.

In Arcos, I found a spacious, well-equipped palace with a full staff, including, to my distaste, my half sister, Joanna. I’d hoped to have seen the last of her but couldn’t very well refuse her service, given our familial blood. I accepted her rigid curtsy with as much graciousness as I could muster. Then I turned to the bowing ranks of cooks, chamberlains, stewards, and chambermaids. Not since Flanders had I disposed of so many servants.

“I’ll hardly know what to do with them all,” I said to my father. “My needs are simple.”

“Nonsense. You’re a queen now. You require a court.” He pointed to an alcove. “See there. I believe there is someone who wishes to greet you.”

I looked to where he pointed. Light spilled from the overhead windows, falling in shafts onto a small figure who stepped forth. I couldn’t move, could not speak, as I gazed through a start of tears at my five-year-old son, the infante Fernando, whom I had last seen as a babe.

He bowed with perfect solemnity.
“Majestad,”
he intoned,
“bienvenida a Arcos.”

I felt a fluttering in my chest. I sank to my knees to look into his large, thick-lashed brown eyes. Of all my children, he most resembled my father, as if he had absorbed the physical traits of the man who had raised him.

“Fernandito,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”

He glanced at my father before returning to me.
“Sí. Vos es mi madre la reina.”

I reached out and embraced him. “Yes,” I whispered, “I am your mother the queen.” Holding him to me, I gazed up at my father. “Thank you, Papá, from the bottom of my heart. You’ve brought me so much happiness.”

He bowed his head. “May it always be so,
madrecita.
”

FROM MY PALACE IN ARCOS, I WAS KEPT APPRISED BY DAILY COURIERS
of the siege. My father and the
grandes
marched into Burgos to meet the constable and his forces. Surrounding the castle walls, they trapped the mercenaries in the citadel. They waited it out for a full three months before all inside capitulated without a single blade being drawn. My father promised them mercy if they swore allegiance to Spain and turned over the traitor Don Manuel, only to discover that Don Manuel had slipped out days before the surrender through an underground passage, carrying a small fortune in Philip’s plate and his private jewels.

“Can you believe it?” my father said when he came to escort me to Burgos for our triumphant entrance. “That miserable frog found some old medieval passage everyone else had forgotten about. It led directly to a convent and he forced the poor sisters at dagger point to help him escape. From there, he took ship at Laredo for Vienna.” He guffawed as he spoke; he found the ambassador’s cowardice amusing, even as I replied tartly that justice had not been served.

“Oh, it’s been served,” he said. “Being exiled to your father-in-law’s court will be punishment enough. From head councillor, he’s reduced to stowing away to Vienna in a stolen nun’s robe, to beg succor on hands and knees. Lucky for him, he has your dead husband’s jewels. Otherwise, Maximilian would have his head.”

“He had no right to those jewels,” I countered. “And he’s still a free man.”

“Yes, but a ruined one. And Burgos is mine.”

I didn’t remark on his slip, reasoning he’d meant to say “ours.” A week later, he and I rode into Burgos, to the clangor of the cathedral bells. I wore my finest gold gown and a coronet; this time, however, the populace called out,
“Viva el rey Don Fernando! Viva la reina Doña Juana!”
and I espied my father’s proud grin. He must have looked this way countless times before when he’d taken a city for my mother. It pleased me to see him have the veneration and respect he deserved and to see the nobles’ scowls at our reception. Let them be warned that under my rule Castile would no longer be prey to their wiles or ambitions.

At the cathedral doors, my father clasped my hand and lifted it together with his, to a resounding roar from the crowd. “And once we put matters to right here,” he told me as I threw back my head and laughed, “the bells in Toledo shall ring for your coronation.”

AUTUMN TURNED TO WINTER; WINTER FADED INTO SPRING. THERE
was much to do in Burgos, but I left my father to wrangle with the constable and the other
grandes
while I returned to my palace and my children, where for the first time in years I could devote myself to being a mother. My Catalina approached her first year; I wanted to spend time with her and my son, and enjoy the tranquillity I’d so painstakingly earned. The sound of laughter soon pervaded the house; and with my devoted Beatriz, Soraya, and old Doña Josefa (who also seemed to shed years as she assumed charge of the children) I set myself to fashioning an intimate cocoon.

My father had shown singular care in his rearing of Fernando. My Spanish-born was quick-witted, intelligent, and studious, but not as overtly as my Charles. I spent every morning watching over his lessons, recalling how my mother’s personal supervision of my and my sisters’ education had ensured our academic success, but in the afternoons I insisted we go out into the gardens to partake of the fresh air.

He shared stories of his time in Aragón, where he said the mountains dwarfed anything he had seen in Castile, and how he longed one day to own his own hawk. I sent all the way to Segovia for a renowned falconer and the perfect bird, and while I privately feared the creature was far too wild for a child, it took to Fernandito like a kitten. The falconer assured me my son was a born hunter and they plunged with gusto into his hawking lessons in the wide fields outside the palace, landing us quail and other small birds for our dinner table.

Sometimes I joined them, wearing the thick-padded gauntlet on which the tethered and blinded bird perched, feeling its claws dig into the leather as it waited impatiently for me to untie it and release it into the sky. I was mesmerized as it effortlessly soared upward, seeming not to notice the frantic rustling of the creatures the falconer beat out of the bushes with a stick, and I always watched breathlessly as it swooped down with lethal precision to catch its prey. I did not like the smell of blood but I could only admire how it always delivered a sure, quick death.

I also had my private moments, in which I made peace with my past. No one seemed to know what to do with Philip’s coffin. The smell alone grew so terrible I finally had to order the lid nailed shut and the coffin itself removed to a ruined chapel on the palace grounds, where it rested before the leaf-strewn altar. I had the chapel roof repaired to keep out the elements but otherwise did little else. I didn’t believe anything but dead flesh remained in that box, and still I took a strange comfort in visiting the chapel in the afternoons when everyone took to their beds for the siesta, to sit by it and sometimes touch the now-tarnished handles. I even spoke to him at moments, of our son and how handsome he was, and of our girl Catalina, who was starting to resemble the best of both of us in her looks and personality. Philip had gone to a place where crowns did not matter anymore; I wanted to remember him as he’d been when we first met, beautiful and young, uncorrupted by the ambition that tore us apart.

“Rest now, my prince,” I would murmur, and I leaned to the coffin to set my lips on the cold lid. The smell of death was gone now. It was as though the coffin held only memories.

And I would not hate memories.

THE ADMIRAL HAD REMAINED
in Burgos with my father, but he sent letters to me detailing the events shaping Castile. He reported there had been much wrangling and threats when my father announced his and my decision to set the kingdom to rights together, with the Marquis of Villena in particular flinging down his cap in disgust and declaring he would not let himself be ruled by Aragón again. My father, the admiral reported, proved uncharacteristically mild in his rebuke, given his own past with the nobility of Castile. At his side, supporting his every move and facing down the lords with the full wrath of the church at his back, was Cisneros, who’d recently been granted a cardinal’s hat at sixty-seven years of age.