The Creation Of Eve (9 page)

"Yes, my lady."

"As I am the Queen's first lady, it would behoove you to paint my portrait before all others at court, should you try your hand at such."

My heart sank. How was I to portray this woman, with her small black eyes, pinched nose, and furred lip? It would be like painting a ferret in a dress.

"My lady, I will remember that."

"How soon can you do one?" she demanded. "I should like to have it before Easter."

Less than two months! I could not prepare the canvas and pigments, draw her likeness and plan the composition, and then carry out the scheme through successive layers of paint--let alone make the woman look agreeable--in this amount of time. "Of course, my lady," I said. Did she ever put down that pomander?

The Queen spoke Up from where she was sitting on a bench, drinking a cooling draught. In her soft, girlish voice, she said, "Dona Sofonisba is here to instruct
me
."

The condesa de Uruena dropped her pomander. It bounced from the end of its chain around her waist as everyone turned to look at the Queen. Even the Queen herself seemed surprised, her eyes widening as if she were not Used to speaking Up, let alone to having her way.

The condesa recovered first. "Of course, Your Majesty." She retrieved her pomander and sniffed with a pleasant smile. "My portrait shall come after your lessons are complete."

"No." The Queen held Up her little chin. "I mean she shall be busy enough instructing me, for I intend to get quite good. Then, if she has time, she shall paint me--if that is agreeable to you, dona Sofonisba."

I curtseyed. "Certainly, Your Majesty."

The condesa drew deeply from her pomander. "Your Majesty, I believe you already have someone to paint your portrait. The King has appointed a renowned painter from the Low Countries, Anthonis Mor, in that capacity. He awaits you in Madrid."

The Queen shrugged her thin shoulders, rustling the thick gold brocade of her robe. "Then dona Sofonisba can assist him."

The condesa leveled me a cold gaze. At that moment, my goblet appeared before my eyes. I looked Up. Francesca flashed me a look of warning as she held out my water.

"Where are you staying now?" the Queen asked me.

"Me, Your Majesty? In the Posada de la Sangre on the Plaza de Zocodover, with my serving lady. His Majesty's chamberlain has kindly found Us a place there."

"Both of you shall move into my quarters in the palace. Dona Maria, can you find them a room near yours?"

"Of course," the condesa de Uruena said sourly.

The Queen ducked her head in a shy smile. "You must keep near to me if you are to do my likeness someday."

"Yes, Your Majesty," I said. "Thank you."

I did not have to meet Francesca's frown to know that I had made a new enemy in the condesa. But the Queen had made one, too, and it was not wise to displease the condesa, who could damage her deeply with one dark word of innuendo or gossip. And to risk this over something as trivial as drawing lessons, the impetuous child. Even I, the daughter of lower nobility, knew that dangerous undercurrents flowed beneath the surface of tranquillity at every court. One misstep and a person could be washed away on a tide of disfavor, even a Queen. It had happened in my papa's youth at the English court of King Henry. All the world knows that King Henry's wife Anne Boleyn had lost her head because the King had turned against her. King Henry had been mad for her, ignoring all who spoke of her unsuitability as Queen, but when the scales had fallen away from his eyes, aided by vicious court gossip, he was ruthless. Only producing a son could have kept her head on her shoulders. With that lesson in mind, this headstrong little French Queen should take great care. For her Spanish ladies whisper she has not yet had her monthly courses. There is no possibility of a son to buffer her should the winds commence to blow the wrong way.

This afternoon at the running of the bulls, my young mistress again Unwittingly put herself in a vulnerable position as she watched the proceedings with her husband the King. It was before the third running, just before the bull was loosed. We were on the balcony of a nobleman's palace overlooking the Plaza de Zodocover. The Queen stood with the King, and the condesa de Uruena and the French blonde beauty, madame de Clermont, were just behind them, with me and several other ladies completing the row. Just inside, Francesca elbowed her way for position among the crowd of servants. The Queen was gazing out over the stone balustrade, toying with the Great Pearl hanging from its brooch Upon her narrow chest, when the King's son, Don Carlos, reeking of perfume and medicinal camphor, spilled onto the balcony with my dancing partner, Don Alessandro, and the King's comely "new" brother, Don Juan.

Swords a-swing at their hips, the young gallants made their way through the gathered grandees to greet His Majesty and the Queen. This was my first glimpse of Don Carlos, the King's fourteen-year-old son by his first wife, the Princess of Portugal. Illness had kept the Prince abed for the previous days of the wedding festivities--it appeared he should be there still. The skin Upon his sunken cheeks was so pale as to be bluish, and his white-lashed, protuberant eyes were glossily feverish. But ailing or not, this fair-haired wisp of a youth was now being released from his father's affectionate embrace to be introduced to the Queen.

Don Carlos stared at her, dumbstruck. He crossed and recrossed his arms, thin sticks within the confines of his tight golden sleeves. Only after the King whispered into his ear did he take the Queen's hand into his shaky grip.

The Queen smiled. "So you are the one I have heard of since I was a babe in the cradle. I am glad to meet you at last."

Scarlet splotches crept Up the hollows of Don Carlos's cheeks. "You are--you are even more beautiful than your pictures."

"We told you so," said Don Alessandro.

The Queen laughed as Don Alessandro kissed her hand. "Ah, the famous dancer," she said.

"You do me great honor, My Lady, though it was my partner who made me look good." Don Alessandro nodded over the Queen's shoulder at me. "I think she sails on angels' wings."

"A nice compliment," she said to me.

I blushed like a
buffone.

Don Juan took his turn at her hand. "Your Majesty Dona Elisabeth, thank you for teaching me to dance. I hope your toes survived my l esson."

"My toes fare well." She poked the tip of a slipper from the voluminous hem of her skirt. "Thank you for inquiring about them, Your Majesty."

"'Your Excellency,' " said the King, correcting her.

She pulled back her foot. Everyone turned in surprise. Indeed, for a moment, even I had forgotten the most important man in the world.

The King patted his son's shoulder as he gazed coolly at the Queen.

The condesa de Uruena stepped forward and whispered to the Queen, "Your Majesty, the proper address for Don Juan is 'Your Excellency.' "

"Why, My Lord?" the Queen said to her husband. "Don Juan is your brother. Why is he not 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Highness' like the rest of the Royal Family?"

The King studied her dispassionately as Don Juan looked between them, the color heightening in his face. A silence descended over the balcony, punctuated by the sound of the King's pennants snapping in the wind.

Who did not compare the two brothers, standing so close to each other? Almost twenty years apart and the sons of different mothers, the two favored each other remarkably, though on Don Juan, the King's blue eyes were brightened with dark lashes, His Majesty's fair skin livened with fresh rosiness, his cropped and graying curls smoothed into flowing honey. But the brothers truly differed in one regard: whereas the King bore the jutting Hapsburg jaw, Don Juan was graced with a handsome dimpled chin. How it must rankle the King to be subjected to this young, improved version of himself.

"The bull enters!" Don Alessandro cried. All eyes turned to the plaza below, where a flock of youths scrambled on the cobblestones before a charging bull. Though the King observed the hilarity with the cool serenity the Spanish call
sosiego
, I could see the muscles twitch in his jaw.

I fear young Don Juan will have to take care. As will the headstrong Queen.

To Tiberio Calcagni in Rome

Thank you for your kind letter. I must admit I was surprised to receive it. I had thought by your long silence since I had departed from Rome that our association had ended. Perhaps this gap can be explained by your work with maestro Michelangelo. I recognize the importance of this work and applaud the effort you put into it.

I fear you misconstrue my position here at Court. While I am honored to serve His Sacred Majesty as a lady to his Queen, I am but her teaching instructor. I am not allowed to paint her portrait.

A Netherlander named Anthonis Mor has that privilege and right as Painter to the King. So you must see how I look back on my studies in Rome with particular fondness. I know now that they were the most important days of my life.

I hope your efforts on the unfinished Pieta continue at a satisfactory rate. It is truly excruciating not to be able to bring unfinished business to fruition.

From Toledo,
this 15th day of February, 1560

Sofonisba Anguissola

ITEM: Some hold that inhaling the scent of a pomander is an effective deterrent from disease. This is yet to be proven. If one insists upon its usage, the recipe for filling it follows: Take two ounces of labdanum and benjamin, of storax one ounce, musk from a male musk deer, six grains, civet six grains, ambergris six grains, and of
Calamus aromaticus
and
Lignum aloes,
each the weight of a
maravedi.
Beat all these in a hot mortar with a hot pestle till they come to paste. Then wet your hand with rose water and roll up the paste. Place in the sections of a pomander.

ITEM: Several of the sisters serving the ill at the Hospital de Cardinal Tavera here in Toledo are fallen women who have renounced their sins and taken the veil.

ITEM: Over the canvas primed with glue and chalk, apply a thin layer of white lead ground into linseed oil and diluted with essence of turpentine. Let dry. Repeat.

20 FEBRUARY 1560

El Alcazar, Toledo

The Queen fell ill last night. The Small Pox, it is feared. Her household is frantic. Ladies pace the halls and wring their handkerchiefs, then sob into their veils when the physician strides by with a flask of Her Majesty's Urine. Her young pages, the beautiful sons of the mighty, cower against the wall, abashed by the outpouring of feminine anguish. Servants huddle together in watchful knots; messengers stand agape with their letters Unread; tutors clutch closed books; dressmakers hold wound bolts of silk; musicians dangle silent instruments; cooks' boys balance Unopened tureens smelling of chicken. Among this crush of stunned attendants, lapdogs wrestle and bark and squat, mindless of the small, still figure on the red-draped bed of state. For in spite of all the orders given in regard to the primping, educating, and feeding of this precious commodity, no one has been assigned merely to hold the Queen's hand.

Who could have imagined this scene yesterday morn? It had begun so promisingly, cold and windy but clear. The skies were that hard, brilliant blue particular to Spain--particular, too, to the eyes of young Don Juan--as we ladies of the court took to mule-drawn litters after Mass and a light meal. I peeked out of the crimson brocade curtains of our conveyance as we passed Under the carved stone towers of the Bisagra city gates, frightening a boy on a donkey. Apparently ladies do not often pop their heads out of luxurious conveyances.

On the seat across from me, the condesa de Uruena, irritable for having been excluded from the Queen's litter in favor of Her Majesty's French ladies, frowned as I watched our descent to the dusty plain on the only side of Toledo not bounded by the river Tajo.

"What are those?" I asked as we joggled past a scattering of stone arches among weedy drifts of rosemary. The smell of the woody plants permeated the dry air.

"Ruins from Roman times. A coliseum." The condesa lodged her pomander, with its attendant reek of civet, into her nostril. "Please close the curtains."

I sat back with a pang. I remembered Tiberio and me, notebooks and charcoal in hand, sketching the ruins on the Palatine Hill on my first visit to Rome, four years ago. Cows were cropping weeds around the fallen stones as I worked.