The Creation Of Eve (10 page)

"Well done," Tiberio had said, looking over my shoulder. He backed away as Francesca inserted herself between Us. "Clever how you portray Time reducing the great to rubble,
signorina
. I can feel the sadness in the air." His gray-green eyes lit in a smile. "The Maestro will love it. He is the King of Melancholia."

"I don't Understand it," I said. "He is the most beloved and respected painter and sculptor in the world. Popes, dukes, everyone sings his praises. If I were he, I would be insufferably joyous."

Tiberio shrugged before Francesca blocked him from my view. Now the mules stopped, jolting me back to the present and the condesa's watchful frown. We had come to the playing field for one of the cane tourneys of which the Spanish are so fond, where the gentlemen form teams and challenge each other on horseback, throwing darts made of river canes at each other. It was the first of such events since Her Majesty's arrival. Curious to see at last this uniquely Spanish spectacle, I let Her Majesty's page hand me down from the litter and escort me to my place among the lesser ladies lined Up to either side of the Queen at the edge of the tourney field.

The wind tugged at the voluminous veil I wore in the style of the women of this country. Unless given permission by her husband or father, a lady never goes abroad in public without one. How I wished to cast off the bothersome thing, itself a castoff from the condesa--it smelled of her, like old fur, masking the pleasant weedy scent of the field and the aroma of horse and leather. But good manners and Francesca, free of the servants' wagon and tottering my way, kept me wrapped in my cocoon.

The gentlemen lined Up to parade before Us. They looked so very manly on their prancing steeds, their armor shining in the brilliant winter sun, the tails and bright trappings of their horses blowing in the wind. I peered down the row of ladies and toward the Queen, expecting to glimpse her enjoyment of the
caballeros
, but saw instead that she was biting her gloved fingers Under her veil and fidgeting with the Great Pearl she wore then as on all occasions.

Then I remembered: Not yet eight months before, the Queen's father, Henri II of France, had died at a tournament celebrating her wedding by proxy in Paris, though it had been a different sort of tourney from the one here. It was the kind where men rode at the lists, trying to Unseat each other with their lances. A splinter from a breaking lance had shot through the French King's visor and pierced him through the eye, resulting, ten days later, in his death. All of Europe had been in shock that so powerful a man had been felled in his prime, all in the name of sport.

I looked around. Had no one thought how disturbing even a cane tourney might be for the Queen? Though the condesa de Uruena and her ever-present pomander stuck to Her Majesty's left side like sealing wax, and the Queen's chief French lady, the beautiful madame de Clermont, attached herself with equal persistence to Her Majesty's right, both seemed more aware of each other than of their distressed Lady. The Queen's other French ladies were busy, too, still voicing their humiliation and outrage over having to wear the same tired clothes day after day since their trunks had not arrived, while the Spanish ladies were occupied with arranging their veils just so, as to attract the attention of the gentlemen. Francesca, allowed only as far as the huddle of servants at the end of the row of ladies, met my worried gaze.

As the eldest of our family, I am accustomed to giving comfort. With six girls, a boy, and only one nurse, there is often need for another hand at it. But this was the Queen of Spain, not Europa crying because Count Broccardo's daughter had snubbed her.

The line of noble horsemen paraded before Us, led by the King in black armor chased with swirls of gold. His helmet Under his arm, he bowed briefly from his saddle to the Queen, then forced his black steed into a show of sidesteps to the crowd 's wild applause.

The ladies were still calling their approval when into the King's wake clattered Don Carlos, Don Juan, and Don Alessandro. Despite their fine horses and armor, they fought like a pack of eager puppies to position themselves before the Queen.

"You must choose one, Your Majesty," the condesa de Uruena told the Queen. "They each wish for you to be their liege lady."

Even from down the line of swaying skirts, I could see the Queen's nervousness evaporate as she considered the young bloods jostling before her. The King turned on his horse to watch.

My Lady held out her handkerchief to Don Carlos. "For the one who is like a brother to me."

Don Carlos, a pale worm within a golden shell, reached with a clank of armor for the handkerchief, nearly falling from his horse. He caught himself just in time, clutching the frothy lace cloth to his breastplate. Even from where I stood, I could see his watery eyes shining with gratitude through his open visor. Equally visible was the King, leaning back in his saddle, taking it all in.

With a satisfied nod, the King swung back around. I followed his line of vision Until it came to rest Upon his sister, Dona Juana, Crown Princess of Portugal. I had seen Dona Juana at many of the events celebrating the arrival of the Queen. With perfect skin, shrewd blue eyes framed by white lashes, and a rounded brow that she lowers like a battering ram when she speaks, she is a beautiful woman in a formidable way. A person with any sense would not argue with her, though she is a young woman, near my years in age. Widow of the Portuguese Crown Prince, she had come back to Spain six years ago at her father the Emperor's request, leaving behind her infant son. Busy waging war in France, the Emperor had chosen her to rule as his regent in Spain, since Felipe, then Prince, had gone to England to wed Mary Tudor. She quickly earned a reputation for stern efficiency and an Unblinking commitment to enforcing the law. But now even the woman known as the Iron Princess was chuckling as her nephew, Don Carlos, galloped off whirling the Queen's handkerchief aloft, his page racing after him, calling him back.

The flash of a jewel caught my attention. I looked again to the King's sister, then to the lady-in-waiting next to her, a beauty whose dark Uncovered hair shone blue-black in the sun. She toyed with a large diamond brooch as she stared at the King, and he, I did realize, was staring back at her.

That evening, at a masque given by the Archbishop of Toledo, I watched this lady closely. While the performers sang to the music of viol, lute, and harp, she did nothing more than carry Dona Juana's train, fetch her mistress goblets of water, and stand back while the Princess voiced her many irrefutable opinions. The only time I took my eyes from the lady in the space of the first hour was to lift my empty cup to the pages circulating through the chamber with wine, while Francesca shook her head
no
from the servants' gallery.

But even after the performance had ended and a dance had begun, not once did the lady look at the King nor he at her, and no movement between them would have gone Undetected. My attention was not divided, as was the other ladies' in the Queen's household, by the little war gaining momentum between the Spanish ladies and the French, ever since a French lady had overheard a Spanish lady complain to a gentleman that the French women were dirty. I had just decided that perhaps the connection between Dona Juana's lady and the King was a figment of my imagination when the three young Royal
caballeros
, Don Carlos, Don Alessandro, and Don Juan, sauntered into the hall.

They made their way first to kiss the hand of the King, as was proper, then the Queen's, though Don Alessandro had to push Don Carlos forward to her, as newly shy as the Prince was from her attention to him at the cane tourney. When Don Carlos brushed her hand with his lips, then stammered the standard "I kiss Your Majesty's hands and feet," the little Queen, as spirited as always, responded by asking him to dance.

The King watched them make their way to the floor, his brother Don Juan beside him. Although the King's expression was calm and aloof, beneath crossed arms his thumbs twitched against his forefingers.

Cold air seeped through the shuttered windows, stirring the fringe of the tapestries covering the walls and bending the flames of the candles studding the great wheels of the candelabra overhead. As the Queen and Don Carlos stepped into a somber pavane, I studied the King and his brother. They did not speak to each other, even when in close proximity.

"Will you gape at them all night?"

I turned to find Don Alessandro at my elbow. Quickly, I averted my eyes. "I was studying His Majesty. I hope to do his portrait someday."

"Is that so?"

I paused as if being torn from deep painterly thoughts, but Don Alessandro led me onto the dance floor to the sweet sawing of the viol. In truth, I had never entertained the possibility of painting the King. A lady drawing teacher was hardly a likely candidate ever to do so. As we commenced into the hesitating march of the pavane, I could smell Don Alessandro's curls, fresh-washed in scented water, though a faint, boyish odor of dirt clung to him, reminding me he was but a new-grown man.

"So tell me more about the great Michelangelo," he said.

I flinched.

"Does he paint all the time?" he asked.

"Not anymore."

"As good as he is? Why not?"

"He is over eighty years of age now. At any rate, sculpting is his preference." I forced a carefree laugh. "I think spending seven years on his back, painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, soured him toward the brush."

"H'm. Being on one 's back usually has a happy effect."

Did he reserve his impertinence for me, or did he speak this disrespectfully to every woman? "Maestro Michelangelo says painting is all artifice," I said, my voice cool with formality, "an illusion. It is merely a trick, compared with the solid reality of sculpted stone." I drew in a breath, hearing in my mind Tiberio arguing for the superiority of sculpting. I could see him bent over the red chalk drawing of the Unfinished statue in Michelangelo's house, the planes of his cheekbones sharp with seriousness as he proclaimed sculpture to be the harder art to master. Sweetest Holy Mary, had I misspoken in my letter to him? Should I have assuaged his pride more? Let my own hurt show less?

"I must like being tricked, then, because I like paintings better than statues. Besides, aren't portraits a form of reality?" Don Alessandro peered at me as he raised my hand at a pause. "Are you well?"

"Yes. Of course." I lifted my chin. "In Francisco de Holanda's famous treatise on portraits, he defines them as 'the
contrived
likeness of any prominent person of high standing, whose image should rightly be preserved for centuries to come.' "

"Well," he said as we resumed our footwork, "I would like you to contrive my likeness. And make it good--I wish to be known to history as a handsome devil."

The King's nephew or not, he had a terrible way of asking for a portrait. Even if I were not obliged to instruct the Queen only, I have my pride. I took a few more steps before speaking. "I see Don Carlos wears Her Majesty's handkerchief from the tourney."

He glanced at me, then laughed. "Oh, you have noticed? Poor idiot, you cannot take it off him."

"Like the Queen and her Great Pearl."

He turned me slowly to the music. "What do you know of the pearl?"

"Nothing--why do you make that face?"

He gave me a conspiratorial smile. "The King gave it to her."

We processed together in the opposite direction. "Is that unusual?" I said. "I Understand it is the best of the Spanish crown jewels. It is the largest perfectly shaped pearl in the world."

"He gave it to his previous wife."

"Don Carlos's mother, the Portuguese Princess."

"No, his second wife."

"The English Queen Mary?"

He nodded. "Like our Queen, she never took it from her person. Bloody Mary convinced herself that the pearl was a token of his great affection--if she couldn't have the King, at least she had it."

"How sad. Even in Cremona, it was known that he did not love her."

He leaned close to whisper. "She died alone, with the pearl Upon her breast. They say they had to pry it from her cold, stiff hands."

A chill prickled my scalp. Ahead, the Queen chatted brightly with Don Carlos as they stepped. Although the Prince hung his head, I could see his radiant smile.

"Why has not anyone told her?" I said.

Don Alessandro laughed. "Whom would you suggest? Her Spanish ladies will not tell her because they enjoy knowing something she does not. The French ladies will not tell her because they are afraid to make her Unhappy--or the Spanish ladies happy at seeing her Unhappy."

"For one so young, you notice much."

Don Alessandro shrugged. "I have lived all my life in courts. First my father's"--his brow clouded as he glanced at the King--"now here. Someday I shall have one of my own as Duke, not that I want one."

"Every man wants his own court, does he not?"

"Not I. I shall be sick of people asking me for favors all day. When
I
have a court, I will be tough like my great-grandfather. He was the Pope who had to fix the Church after Luther made his mess. Had a few handsome bastards, too."

Luther. Who would have known that one man could tear all of Europe apart by suggesting that people did not need the Pope or priests to get to God? Such a simple idea. And such an intolerable one, especially to popes--and kings--whose position and power come from being God's anointed representatives on earth.

Don Alessandro nodded ahead, to where Don Juan had just broken in to dance with the Queen. Don Carlos was standing aside, his pasty jaw ajar in shock.

"He still has not gotten over it," Don Alessandro whispered. He turned me around again.

"Over what,
senor
?"

"He was betrothed to her at one time, you know."

"Don Carlos? To the Queen?" It was hard to imagine the poor wisp of a youth as anyone 's bridegroom.

"From the cradle, nearly. When the King was married to the English Queen Mary, Don Carlos was pledged to Elisabeth. Why do you look surprised--they are nearly the same age. You should have seen Don Carlos when the English Mary died and the King promptly announced that
he
would marry the French Princess himself. Don Carlos threw a chair out the window of the palace in Madrid."