The Last Queen (26 page)

send for our son.”

I recoiled. “That― that is not true,” I said, even as the intimation crawled through

me.

“No? Then perhaps you can explain why between his badgering of me to throw

over France, your father made a pointed inquiry about my willingness to see our son

named infante?” He chuckled at my dumbstruck silence. “I thought as much. You

can‟t explain, because You know it‟s true; you‟ve known from the beginning. You‟ve

been working with him all along, haven‟t you, though I am your husband;
I
am the one you owe your loyalty to! You think that if you wear me down enough I‟ll do

whatever they ask. Well, no more. The last pawn in their plan to rule the world is dead

in England. Who can they turn to now, eh? Who will save their precious Spain?”

I could not take my eyes from his face― a savage face I did not recognize.

Somewhere inside me, his awful accusations took hold, like a slow-acting poison.

“Me!” He jabbed his chest with his finger. “I‟m the only one they can turn to.

Only I can save Spain now. My blood is their future. Let your mother pontificate until

she‟s blue in the face. She knows how much her nobility despises your father; how

they wait like ravens for her to die so they can fall on Fernando of Aragón and rip

him apart. She knows they‟ll never suffer another woman to rule over them. Without

me, everything she has fought for will be lost, ruined.”

His smile turned cruel. “So, go now. Go tell her what an ungrateful knave I am.

Only also tell her to watch herself. Tell her if she tries my patience, I‟ll leave this

accursed land so quickly it will make her royal head spin. And I‟ll leave you with it.”

He strode past me, banging open the door.

Burying my face in my hands, I began to weep.

__________________________________

e returned to Toledo, where my mother instituted nine days of official

mourning for Prince Arthur. Funeral masses were held morning, noon and

W night. We were obliged to attend each one, to show our sorrow over a

black bier bearing a waxen effigy of the Tudor prince we‟d never met. I did grieve, not

for him, but for my sister Catalina, so far from home and all alone, a widow at

seventeen years of age. I also grieved for myself, for the shattering of my hopes for

this return to Spain, now turned into a cauldron of intrigue and resentment. A veil of

regal pretense might drape our public lives but in private everything began to unravel,

and I feared more than ever what the future might bring.

Besançon was at Philip‟s side constantly, whispering further defiance in his ear,

and as a result war ensued with my parents and their councilors, without a single

concession to relieve the tension we lived under― as my mother never ceased to

remind me.

“I know your husband cares nothing for Spain,” she said. “But he‟s not so much a

fool as he would have us believe. I‟ve watched him and Besançon at our council

sessions. I‟ve seen how their eyes glitter whenever we discuss the New World and our

may estates and their patrimonies.” She gave a grim smile. “Land is power. All Louis

of France has offered them are empty promises and a princess who might not survive

her infancy, while we offer an established realm. Perhaps this explains why the

archbishop was at me only this morning, making noises that either I settle the

succession once and for all or he‟ll recommend an immediate return to Flanders.”

As always, the mention of Besançon made my anger run thick, lending me the

fortitude I‟d felt slipping of late. “Let Besançon threaten whatever he likes,” I said.

“Neither Philip or I will leave until this matter is resolved.”

“It soon will be.” My mother sighed. “I‟m afraid I must do as they ask and

convene my Cortes. For better or for worse, I will settle my succession on you as my

heir and Philip as your prince-consort― but only as prince-consort, nothing more.

Your father will do the same in Aragón, though he‟ll require more time.” She

grimaced. “The Aragónese will be harder to convince. Yet now that we‟ve conceded,

perhaps it‟ll put an end to this insufferable alliance with France.”

Thus it came to pass that on May 22, 1502, Philip and I knelt before the court,

grandes,
and clergy to be invested as heirs. Recently returned from his persecution of the
moriscos
in Sevilla, gaunt Cisneros of Toledo presided over the ceremony; when the time came for each of us to kiss his ring, Cisneros withdrew his fingers just as Philip

leaned to it. My stomach sank; Philip reared a furious expression. Cisneros regarded

him with implacable black eyes, conveying Spain‟s contempt as nothing else could.

_________________

OUR INVESTMENT SEEMED TO EASE MATTERS SOMEWHAT, neither Philip nor

Besançon had questioned the title of prince-consort and we now waited for my father

to pave the way with his Cortes in Aragón, with plans to travel to his capital city of

Zaragoza in the fall, after the intense heat faded. For now, we sought refuge from one

of the most brutal summers I could recall, a virtual inferno that charred leaves on the

trees, baked the soil until it cracked, and shriveled the rivers in their beds.

After several members of the Flemish suite succumbed to an ailment brought on

by ingesting contaminated water, my mother began making plans to move us to the

cooler and healthier environs of Aranjuez. Then news of another unexpected death

came in a packet of letters from Flanders. Among Madame de Halewin‟s accounts of

my children‟s welfare was the sad news that at sixty-seven years of age my duenna

Doña Ana had succumbed to her nemesis, the tertian fever. Madame related that

Eleanor had taken Doña Ana‟s passing particularly hard and Margaret had come to

fetch her and bring her to her court at Savoy for a time.

My duenna‟s loss hit me with a unexpected force. I was disconsolate for a time,

for she had been part of my life for as long as I could remember, at my side through

my childhood rebelliousness, my youthful battles for independence and struggle to

adapt to life in a foreign land. My ladies and I pitched in together to send money for

masses to be said for her soul, but I was soon distracted from my grief when I got

word that the water sickness was spreading through Toledo. Within days the populace

fled to the country. My mother commanded our immediate departure and sent word

to Ocaña, where Philip had gone on a hunting trip.

In the midst of my packing a page raced into my chambers. “Your Highness, you

must come at once! My lord archbishop Besançon is gravely ill!”

I paused. Besançon was notorious for his penchant for too many black olives,

manchego cheese, and our famous black-foot ham: he‟d suffered more colic than a

babe since our arrival in Spain. I was not about to go rushing to his beside to attend

him.

The page added, “He‟s at the Marquis of Villena‟s townhouse. Her Majesty‟s own

physician has been called for. They say he might have the water fever.”

I went cold. “Beatriz, come,” and we hurried through sun-bloodied streets to

Villena‟s
casa.

The marquis met me in the hall. He looked dressed for court in his crimson

doublet, his hair freshly pomaded. As he spoke, I thought I saw a smile lingering on

his thin lips in their immaculate goatee. “His bowels run black with bile. Your

Highness must not go near him. Dr. de Soto attends him and word has been sent to

His Highness. You can wait in the hall, if you wish.”

He led me to the hall as though he escorted me to supper. I knew he did not care

if Besançon lived or died, and I sat with Beatriz in mounting apprehension, while his

servants brought us refreshments. How had Besançon fallen ill? He had been staying

here with Villena for several days. The marquis seemed fine enough, so his water

supplies couldn‟t be contaminated. Has Besançon eaten something fouled by the

disease?

These thoughts ran through my head like rats in an attic and by the time Philip

arrived at dusk, I was in a state of nervous tension. I hurried out to speak with him,

but he shook me aside, bounding up the stairs to Besançon‟s chambers, forcing me to

follow.

The room was fetid, dank with heat and the stench of disease. Philip snarled at the

perspiration-drenched royal physician leaning over Besançon‟s supine form. “Get out,

Jew!”

Soto slipped away. I started to reach out to Philip, to keep him from the bed; he

glared at me, then he stepped forth on unsteady steps. “
Mon père,”
I heard him

whisper. “It‟s me. I am here. Your faithful son is here.”

Besançon moaned, his hand fumbling blindly for Philip‟s. “Listen,” he said in a

trembling voice that made me shift toward them. “Plot― There is― plot.” I could see

the archbishop struggling for breath. “The king― you― must― go― poison― I― die

poisoned.”

A stab of fury went through me. “Liar!”

With a strangled sound, Philip started to whirl on me. Besançon choked, arched in

a contorted spasm, his eyes rolling back. A horrifying rumble in his guts preceded a

eruption of foul excrement that drenched the sheets. Philip leapt back. With a hand at

my mouth, gagging at the stench, I staggered to the door, calling out in a suffocated

voice for Dr. de Soto.

“No! Not that monster!” Philip shouted, and he lunged at me. I had already

opened the door.

Standing on the threshold was my father.

_________________

“HE IS DEAD.” PAPÁ STOOD IN THE HALL ENTRANCE. HOURS HAD passed. Philip

sat slumped by the hearth, an untouched goblet in his hand. I sat opposite him,

Beatriz at my side.

“His servants will see to the preparation of his corpse,” my father went on. “The

water sickness is not contagious between people. You must drink from an infected

source to get it.” He paused, meeting my apprehensive gaze before returning to

Philip. “In light of the accusation he made before his death, I suggest that Dr. de Soto

perform an autopsy.”

Philip‟s goblet clattered to the floor. He uncoiled from the stool, heedless to the

wine spreading under his feet. “You tell that Christ killer to keep his filthy hands off

him.” His face was haggard in the flickering firelight. “Leave us alone. I want― I want

to say goodbye.”

He walked from the hall. I looked again at my father. I tried to feel remorse for

the archbishop, but all I could feel was astonishment at the swift turn of events and a

secret relief that I no longer had to contend with him or his domineering influence

over Philip. I did not want to explore my unwilling doubt, though his death had come

at an convenient time, on the very heels of our pending investment in Aragón.

My thoughts must have shown on my face. My father said quietly, “He was wild

with fever and pain. The water sickness does that to a man. Go back to your mother

now and proceed to Aranjuez. There is nothing you can do. I‟ll stay here with your

husband.”

I didn‟t have the heart to question him. As Beatriz and I went back through the

streets with an escort of Villena‟s men, I decided Besançon had been as treacherous

on his deathbed as he‟d ever been in life, sowing suspicion up to the very end.

In my stripped apartments, where my coffers and chest awaited conveyance to

Aranjuez, I fell fully dressed onto my bed and at once into a deep but troubled sleep. I

awakened what was hours, but seemed only minutes, later to the sound of my

bedchamber door clicking open.

I clutched the crucifix at my throat, half-expecting to find Besançon‟s reproachful

shade at my bedside. I peered into the gloom past my bed curtains to see Philip

standing there with his arms limp at his sides. I rose cautiously, thinking he must be in terrible pain, as much as I had been when I first learned of Doña Ana‟s death.

Then he said in a low, icy voice, “Did you know they would do this to him?”

I met his gaze. The blues of his eyes looked black, rimmed in red from weeping. I

shook my head. “Philip, he was delirious. He did not know what he was saying.”

“I should have known you‟d say that. You‟re just like them, cut from the same

cloth. You always hated him. You‟re probably glad he‟s dead. But I know what I

heard, and I tell you he was poisoned. And what‟s more, I know why.”

“Why?” I whispered, though there was nothing in the world I wanted less to hear.

The room had begun to pitch under my feet. I couldn‟t take anymore of this, I

thought faintly. It was too much discord, too much heat, too much of everything. I

felt trapped inside a living hell, stepping backward like a cornered animal as he came

at me.

“Because he was my friend, and I trusted him above all others. They knew how

much he meant to me and they killed him to hurt me! To hurt me and get them out of

the way.”

“They―?” I felt my mouth move, but I couldn‟t hear my voice. A rumbling sound

built inside my head, like the roar of black waters crashing against rocks.

“Yes.
They.
Their Catholic Majesties of Spain! Your beloved parents! They killed my Besançon. And by God, madame―” ―he thrust his face at me― “I
will
have my

revenge.”

My lips parted in horrified protest. The darkness inside roared up to engulf me.

With a groan, my knees gave way and I crumpled to the floor.