History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (8 page)

I spied the pinch in Besançon’s mouth, belying his jocular smile. With a swift upsweep of my hand, I removed the offending cloth.

Silence fell. Then Besançon cried,
“Très belle!”
and as if on cue, the Flemish broke into applause. With a wave of his hand, the archbishop sent two pages speeding from the chamber. Doña Ana rumbled forth. “This is an outrage! How dare he disdain your privacy?”

“He did not disdain it,” I said to her, through my teeth. “I did. I’ll not have him question my suitability. And it seems I have pleased.”

Doña Ana snapped, “He is no one to question! He’s but a—”

The tromping of footsteps spun her around. While the Flemish grinned and the archduchess Margaret released a bray of laughter, the footsteps grew louder, coming closer and closer.

Besançon’s pages ran back into the chamber and bowed to the floor.

A tall young man strode in.

He wore a leather jerkin fitted to his chest, his long legs encased in cordovan boots. As he whipped off his cap, he unleashed a wave of gold-auburn hair that fell to his shoulders. His prominent jaw, aquiline nose, and generous mouth were highlighted by close-set blue eyes that mirrored Margaret’s, as did his unblemished white skin.

A slow smile curved his full lips.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me who he was. There could be no doubt. This was the prince his subjects had dubbed Philip the Fair, and he was indeed that—the fairest man I’d seen, his beauty almost too perfect yet without a hint of femininity, like that of a bold young stag.

I felt a discomfiting sensation. He stood in the stunned silence with gloved hands on hips, studying me as if I were the only person in the room, his gaze intent on my face before it trailed to my breast, where it lingered, as if he espied my quickening pulse. It was an outrageous, brazen look, and yet to my confusion, I found it flattering. No man in Spain would ever dare look upon me, a woman of royal blood, like this. I knew I should retrieve my crumpled veil, but the candid approval in his gaze made my insides turn liquid warm.

Like his minister Besançon, Philip of Habsburg obviously liked what he saw.

“His Highness the archduke,” said Archbishop Besançon with pompous redundancy, seeing as everyone had dropped into obeisance.

Philip yanked off his gauntlets and came to me. He seized my hand, raised it to his lips. His pungent scent teased my senses, a heady brew of sweat and horse, spiced with an unknown salty tang I had sometimes smelled on my father.

“Bienvenue, ma petite infanta,”
he said in a low voice. I glanced at the hand holding mine. He had lovely fingers, I thought in a haze, strong, tapered, without any visible scars. Those hands had probably never held anything more demanding than a hunting bow or sword.

I summoned a tremulous smile. Was this magnificent youth to be my husband? It seemed impossible. I’d prepared to tolerate him at best, disdain him at worst. I had anticipated a marriage without passion, an alliance of state for the good of Spain. I even thought I might hate him. I never for a moment imagined he might stir any sort of feeling in me. But this was unlike anything I had felt before, an inexplicable sensation like butterflies dancing in my veins.

I realized with a start that he waited for me to speak. I managed to murmur, “My lord honors me,” and he gave a soft chuckle before turning to the assembly with an expansive smile. “I am delighted with my Spanish bride. We shall marry at once!”

His declaration rippled like catastrophe through my ranks. Doña Ana swayed as if she were about to swoon; the other matrons glowered. Even Beatriz looked discomfited. With a high-pitched laugh, Margaret said, “Brother dear, must you be so impatient? She has only just arrived here, after an exhausting voyage. Perhaps you might greet her entourage first?”

Philip waved his hand. “Yes, yes.” He didn’t relinquish his hold on me as the members of my household stepped to him. Pulling myself to attention, I introduced them by name, as Margaret had done for me. They filed past, followed by my matrons and ladies. I heard his boot tap, tap, tapping on the carpet. Not until the clergy’s turn came did he display sudden interest.

“My professor of theology, the bishop of Jaén—”

“Bishop?” interrupted Philip. “As in, ordained by the church?”

The elderly bishop paused. “Yes, Your Highness. I am ordained.”

“Splendid! Then you can marry us.”

“I…” The bishop glanced at me. “Your Highness, I fear I cannot.”

“Why not? Is there something wrong with your mouth, perhaps, that you can’t recite a few vows?” Philip turned to me. “Is there something wrong with him, my sweet?”

There were flecks of white in the azure of his irises, like diamond shards. And he had the longest lashes I’d seen on a man, so fair they seemed spun of white gold.

“Well?” he said. Laughter rustled low in his throat. “Is there something wrong with him?”

I blurted, “No, my lord. But it’s not fitting we should wed before—”

“Never mind that. Besançon!” The Flemish archbishop bustled forth. “Is there any reason the infanta and I should not wed here and now?”

Besançon chortled. “None. You need only repeat the vows in person to sanctify your union. Under canon law, Your Highnesses are already husband and wife.”

Philip cupped my chin. “Can you think of any reason?”

Doña Ana cried, “By her honor, Her Highness must be wed by the church!”

He didn’t glance at her. He stared at me as if he could compel me to his will, and quite to my disconcertion I found myself wanting to oblige. It was impulsive, scandalous even, for of course there were several reasons why we shouldn’t wed like this, the primary one being that such events were supposed to be protracted affairs celebrated with pomp. Now, at the age of sixteen, I faced my first decision as a woman, independent of rank or protocol; and all of a sudden I thought that nothing about this marriage made any sense. I didn’t know Philip and yet I’d been sent all this way to become his wife. Whether it happened today or next week, what could it matter?

“I see no reason, my lord,” I finally said, and as Doña Ana groaned in dismay, I motioned to the bishop of Jaén. “My lord, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He dared not refuse me. “A Bible,” he quavered. “I must have a Bible.”

Besançon produced the tome with premeditated haste. Glowering, my retinue knelt beside their Flemish counterparts. The archduchess Margaret joined the other ladies.

There in that antechamber, without incense or altar, I married Philip of Habsburg.

“May none tear asunder those whom God hath joined,” concluded the bishop, and Philip bent to me and put his lips on mine. My first kiss; he tasted of wine. It wasn’t unpleasant.

He drew back and with a triumphant grin said, “Now, to the feast!”

AS SOON AS WE
entered the hall, I realized hours of advance preparation had been expended on this banquet.

Trestle tables stretched the hall’s length to a canopied dais, where Philip and I took our seats. Musicians struck up a refrain. Servitors entered, carrying baked boars’ heads stuffed with caramelized pears; winter peacocks sautéed in hippocras; glazed honeyed herons; haunches of cinnamon-roasted venison; and myriad unrecognizable dishes smothered in creamy sauces. I ventured an inquiring look at Philip, as each course was set before me. He recited the corresponding platter’s name in French. I smiled, feigning understanding.

Throughout the feast, I couldn’t help staring at him. I searched for but failed to find any arrogance beyond what was normal to his rank, none of the callousness or spoiled petulance I could expect from an heir to an empire. He was attentive, solicitous, as a well-bred prince should be. It wasn’t until the desserts were finally served that he whispered, “You haven’t recognized a thing you’ve eaten tonight, have you,
ma petite
?”

“No,” I told him, “but I’ve had poultry before, my lord. I do know its taste.”

“Do you?” He forked a piece of roast flesh from his silver plate and raised it to my lips. I glanced around, wishing we weren’t so visible to the Flemish courtiers seated below us, several of whom were staring, smiling and nudging each other as if they knew something I did not.

I took the fork from him. “Delicious,” I pronounced. “I believe it is quail, yes?”

He let out a hearty laugh. Then I felt his hand slip under the table to rest on my thigh. I went still. It took a moment for me to identify my fear. He touched me as if I were a prized possession, a favorite hound or hawk. I understood then that I was his now, to do with as he wished. I’d surrendered whatever little freedom I’d enjoyed as an infanta to become the archduchess of Flanders, Philip of Habsburg’s wife.

I regretted not having stood my ground earlier. I knew, of course, what was expected of a bride on her wedding night, in general if not specifics. I hadn’t stopped to consider this was, in fact,
my
wedding night. Was I prepared to give myself to a stranger? Unlike me, I doubted he was a novice when it came to such matters. Men rarely were. I should have insisted we wait until a proper ceremony was arranged; I should have pleaded exhaustion or another indisposition.

Yet even as I thought this, I knew I deluded myself. I had agreed because I had wanted to, because I had seen a challenge in him I could not resist.

I reached for my goblet. Philip took up his at the same time. His gesture conveyed what he did not say, and so intense was the way he looked at me that after we drank together Margaret leaned from her place at my left side to whisper in my ear, “You mustn’t worry, my dear. My brother is like any man, but you’ll have your cathedral wedding. My lord Besançon won’t be deprived of the opportunity to show you to the people. He considers our alliance with Spain his greatest achievement to date. Indeed, I’m surprised he hasn’t sent me packing my coffers this very night, so he can see me off all the quicker to your brother’s bed.”

I glanced past Philip at the archbishop. He nodded as Philip murmured to him but seemed more interested in his food, eating with his hands like a serf. I thought there was something unpleasant about the prelate but I was grateful for Margaret’s reassurance. Perhaps now would be the time to tell her about my brother and his many princely accomplishments.

Instead, I felt Philip take my hand and draw me to my feet. “Play a bass dance,” he called to the musicians as he led me to the floor. “A Flemish bass dance to celebrate my marriage.”

His court yelled their approval, banging goblets on the tables, causing cutlery and trenchers to jump. My entourages’ brows arched even higher; I could practically feel their stares boring into me. To them, my wedding ceremony had been a farce. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in virginal isolation with my women until I was wed by the church, with all the requisite trappings.

All thought of extolling Juan’s virtues fled my mind. Surely, I couldn’t dance with a man I’d just met, and whom, in my entourages’ opinion, I had not yet officially wed?

As if he sensed my misgiving, Philip said, “Come, my infanta. Let us show them how Spain and Flanders can dance together.”

He propelled me forward. As the drumbeats gathered force, I surrendered my inhibitions. I excelled at dancing, and the bass dance was one of my favorites, its fluid rhythm and intricate twists and bows requiring both stamina and grace. Philip too proved an excellent dancer, and I met his every move with ease, as if we’d danced together a hundred times before.

He whispered, “You are breathtaking,” and my flush must have reached the roots of my hair when he disdained the courtly glance to kiss me instead on the mouth, quenching my breath. This time, it was more than pleasant. I felt his kiss down to the very tingling soles of my feet.

About us, the court turned boisterous. All of a sudden, the Flemish courtiers stood in an exuberant rush, sending platters crashing to the floor as they grabbed any available woman by the hand, including several of my ladies, and hauled them onto the floor. Within seconds, a mass of cavorting bodies surrounded us. Instinctively, I pressed closer against Philip, staring in disbelief as the Flemish whirled my horrified Spanish ladies about.

Philip chuckled. When I followed his gaze to where one of my women was fending off a drunken lout, I let out an unwitting, nervous laugh. I’d never beheld such unbridled enthusiasm before. Uncouth as they were, the Flemish certainly knew how to enjoy themselves.

Philip looked at me. His regard turned somber. “Your countrymen are not amused,” he said, and my stomach sank when I saw the noblemen of my entourage, who’d come to accompany me here and bring Margaret back to Spain, stand in unison and march from the hall. “You must go now,” Philip added. “I’d not be the cause of further reproach from that dragon duenna of yours.”

He guided me through the crowd to where Doña Ana stood trembling with rage. My other women wrenched free of their uninvited partners to fence me in. My duenna gripped my arm. “It is time you retired, Your Highness,” she said, in a tone that broached no argument. “Now.”

I stared at her livid face and moved with my phalanx of women to the hall doors. As I walked out, I looked over my shoulder. Philip stood among his courtiers, his eyes fixed on me.

I knew it would take more than Doña Ana to keep him at bay.

SIX

T
he moment we reached my apartments, Doña Ana turned on me. “This is a disgrace! What would Her Majesty your mother think were she here to see this? She would most certainly tell you that a few vows in an antechamber do not a marriage make!”

At the mention of my mother, I went cold. “It was Her Majesty who sent me here. And the archduchess Margaret herself told me Besançon will hold this cathedral wedding you insist on.”

“Hah! What does that French pig in his satin know? Did he not insist you remove your veil with no more ceremony than a pauper’s daughter?” She wagged her finger at me, her jowls quivering. “I suppose you think it’s perfectly acceptable for them to flaunt you like some trophy. You always did like to be the center of attention.”

“By the Cross,” I cried. My matrons gasped and genuflected. “Are you going to tell me there’s something wrong with a simple dance between a wife and her husband?”

“He is not your husband! You were betrothed by proxy in Spain—betrothed, nothing more. By the law of God, what you wish to do with him tonight is a sin.”

The matrons rustled, muttering. I said softly, “How do you know what I wish to do?”

“I can see it in you,” she spat. “I see your wantonness. And as your matron, I forbid you to allow him into this chamber should he dare come to your door.”

“You forbid me?” I met her hard stare. I took pleasure in her flinch, in wielding for once my own power over her after years of submitting to hers. “Careful, señora,” I said. “I am no longer a child to be reprimanded by you.”

“Would that you still were, for even as a child never did you dare go so far.” Her face set like mortar. “If you let him come to you before the marriage is sanctified, I cannot be held responsible, nor can any of your ladies. We cannot serve you under such conditions.”

I faltered. I’d never been without my ladies. All my life, they had been there to help me with the private tasks other women performed on their own.

I turned to my matrons. They looked away as if I’d been branded. “As you wish,” I said quietly. “Those who disapprove should go.” Even as I spoke, I wondered at my boldness. What would my mother say when she heard about this? Somehow the thought of defying her from across the sea gave me a small thrill.

My duenna drew herself to full height. “So be it.” She stalked out, followed immediately by the matrons. I turned to find that only Beatriz and Soraya remained in the room.

Beatriz said, “We will not leave Your Highness on your wedding night.”

I sighed in gratitude. “Please, help me undress.”

I stood motionless as they replaced my finery with a linen bed gown that had surfaced unexpectedly in one of the coffers. Soraya went to prepare the bed. Beatriz draped a topaz silk robe about my shoulders. “I found this earlier while searching for your red gown,” she said, and as I sat at the dressing table, she undid my braid and began brushing out my hair.

I stared unseeing into the polished glass. I had no doubt Philip would indeed come to me tonight and that I was about to take the final, irrevocable step into womanhood. It wasn’t too late to change my mind. I could issue the order now, have the door bolted and have Beatriz send word that the day’s events had exhausted me and I must rest.

I whispered, “Beatriz, do you think I am wed in the eyes of God?”

Beatriz paused in her brush strokes, met my gaze in the mirror. “Your Highness has nothing to be ashamed of. You are wed. It’s just as well Doña Ana and that gaggle of crows aren’t here to spoil your night. I vow they’d douse the lust of Lucifer himself.”

I giggled. “You are incorrigible.”

“I speak the truth as I see it. You are his wife, he is your husband, and that’s the end of it.” She leaned closer. “And providing you and the fair archduke do what comes natural to most married couples, you could be mother to a prince before the year is out.”

I gasped, pinched her arm. Beatriz winked at me and turned to Soraya, who had paused with a pillow in her hands. “You! What are you doing standing there with your ears big as castles! Draw down those sheets. His Highness the archduke could be here at any moment and—”

She went still. I too paused as I heard a bawdy song echoing in the corridor. Beatriz started fussing over my hair again, running her hands over its fiery curls until I pushed her away. “I’m fine,” I said, but I couldn’t look in the glass anymore, my heart galloping in my chest as I stood.

A knock came at the door. Beatriz looked at me; I looked at her. Another knock came, louder this time. We didn’t move. Four more bangs.

“Blessed Virgin, open it,” I said, “before they bring it down.”

Philip and three of his gentlemen stepped into the room, flushed from carousing, chemises open to their navels. As one of them made a playful grab at Soraya, Beatriz lunged. I stopped her, marched up to the fool, and slapped his hand away.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” I said, in a tone that would have made Doña Ana proud. They didn’t seem to notice I was trembling under my robe.

The slim man who’d accosted Soraya leered. “It is Flemish custom to see the newlyweds put to bed, my pretty wench, unless you’d like us to christen it first.”

The others roared. Had they actually forgotten whom it was they addressed? I looked at Philip. “My lord, your ways are not yet mine. I ask you to please send these lords away.”

Philip nodded. “Of course. My lords, off with you.”

The men moaned and tromped out. Beatriz started to move toward me when Philip said: “You and the girl too. I would be alone with my wife.”

Beatriz curtsied, then took glowering Soraya by the arm and led her into the antechamber.

The door shut. In the slight draft, a candle by the bed went out.

Now that we were alone, he looked enormous, a giant with hands like platters. I was overwhelmed with longing for the chamber I’d shared with my sisters, for the susurration of their voices in the dark and quiet snores of our ladies on their pallet. What was I supposed to do? What did he
expect
me to do? I searched my mind for a nugget of useful advice among the stockpile imparted to me. I flashed on my mother. She always offered my father a goblet when he returned after an absence, and I said, somewhat breathlessly, “Would my lord care for wine?”

He gave a soft laugh. “I think I’ve had enough.” His hand reached for me. “Come here.”

I recoiled. My mouth went dry. His fingers caught at my wrist, tugging me to him. As he bent to me, I turned my head away. “My lord, please,” I whispered. “I am afraid.”

He paused. “You are afraid? I’d not have thought you capable of such an emotion, my fiery princess.” As he spoke, his fingertips caressed the underside of my wrist. His touch was light as a feather tip and yet it felt like a thousand braziers lighting up inside me.

He was watching me intently. He smiled. “Ah, yes. You are not afraid. You are just unsure of yourself. But you can feel it, can’t you, my sweet Juana? You can feel how much I desire you.”

My heart sounded like horses galloping in my head. I drew a shallow breath, standing perfectly still as his other hand snaked to my waist and unbuckled my robe’s jeweled clasp.

The robe slid from my shoulders, pliant as wings.
“Mon Dieu,”
he breathed, “you are more beautiful than I imagined.” He lifted his eyes. “And me, my infanta? Do you find me beautiful?”

I couldn’t speak a word, but as if he espied the answer in my silence his smile broadened and he began to tug at the tangled stays of his shirt.

A surge of unexpected confidence drove me to him. I pried his fingers aside, disentangled the knots, his breath hot on my brow as I peeled back the linen. His chest shone in the candlelight. I tentatively set my palms on him, marveling that skin so smooth could be so firm to the touch. He moaned. I watched his eyelids flutter and close. As abruptly as it appeared, my confidence vanished. I stepped back, flustered. What was I doing? He’d think me as wanton as Doña Ana had accused me of being.

His hand caught me again. “No. Don’t stop. I promise, I will not hurt you.”

He drew me to him, buried his hands in my hair and pulled it back from my temples. I felt his arousal press against my leg and I wanted to look, to see what made a man.

He brought my mouth to his. This time, his kiss was charged, demanding. I finally did what I had wanted to do from the moment I set eyes on him: my arms rose about his shoulders and I pressed my entire length against him, feeling him tug loose the stays of my bed gown.

Our bodies’ innate language took over. I let my hands roam the planes of his torso with eager inexperience, finding the hidden places that made his skin twitch and him groan. He crushed me against him, raising the cloth of my gown up my body until it passed over me in a crumpled mist.

I stood before him. I’d never been naked in front of anyone save my women, but I wasn’t ashamed. I knew I had a lovely body, my breasts high and firm, my waist slender and legs toned from years of riding. He confirmed this with his eyes, bowing his head to tease me with his mouth. I had never imagined such an intensity of pleasure. I threw back my head as he went lower, lower, rousing a hunger unlike any I had experienced.

In some distant part of my mind a warning clamored that this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I should be waiting for him in bed; he should blow out the candles, slip in beside me with his shirt still on. It was supposed to be brief, painful, then over. It should beget a child, not rouse such heat that it felt as though we might ignite and consume each other.

But now nothing could quell the desires he had awoken. When he grasped me by my waist and hoisted me up, I wrapped my legs about him with ferocity, our hips grinding in a primal dance. He whispered, scalding my thighs as he lowered me onto the bed.

He paused, his face in shadows. Watching. “Show me,” he said, “show me everything.”

I let out a sudden laugh, the audible release of my joy nearly as powerful as the euphoric sensation of lying naked under his gaze. Then I met his stare and reached to my thighs, parting my legs slowly, with a lasciviousness I hadn’t known I possessed. He did not move at first. Then he undid his codpiece and untied his hose, removing his slashed breeches. His hose slipped to his groin, slid apart, and crumpled at his feet.

I had never seen anything so magnificent.

He was fashioned of sinew and muscle, his skin pure as white stone, his broad torso narrowing into lean hips, his sculpted thighs exalting his engorged sex.

“Do you like what you see, little infanta?” he asked, and I nodded, aching now.

He dropped onto the bed. His fingers were everywhere, probing with exquisite sophistication, kindling even more heat, until just as I began to shudder and I heard my own throaty gasps, he spooned my legs on his shoulders and thrust into me.

The pain was sharp, snagging my breath. I instinctually curved upward to meet his plunge. We melded together, our hands gripping, our mouths devouring, until his entire body arched to spill his seed, and he breathed in my ear: “Now, my Juana, now we are one.”