The Last Queen (31 page)

below the eaves. I did not see my mother anywhere, not at the upholstered chair by

her desk near the embrasure nor at the empty throne on its small dais. It took me a

few seconds to realize with a pained jolt that she lay in the bed before me. I moved to

it.

She lay against mounded pillows, her eyes closed. I gazed on her translucent

pallor, under which bluish veins and the very structure of her bones could be traced.

A linen cap covered her scalp; her features seemed oddly childlike. It took a moment

to realize she had no eyebrows. I had never noticed before. She must have had them

plucked in her youth; those thin lines I was accustomed to seeing arched in

disapproval were in fact painted. Her hands rested on her chest. These too I stared at,

the fingers long and thin now, without any rings save the ruby signet of Castile, which

hung loosely on her right finger. I hadn‟t realized how beautiful her hands were, how

elegant and marble-smooth, as if made to hold a scepter.

The hands of a queen. My hands.

How could I not have seen it?

“Mamá?” I whispered. I watch her struggle to awaken; her emaciated breast

quickening, her brow furrowed and eyelids fluttering.

Then her eyes opened and I drowned in their ethereal blue, glazed over with the

effects of the opiate draught.

“Juana?
Hija mia,
is that you? Why have you taken so long? Where have you

been?”

I dropped onto the stool at her bedside, took her cold hand in mine. It was frail,

almost brittle, as if it might crumble like an autumn flower in my fingers.

“Forgive me, Mamá. I did not know you were ill. No one― no one told me.”

She shook her head with trademark indignation, though the denial was

heartbreaking now, a futile attempt to refute her own mortality. “This cursed ague. I

adjourned the Cortes and planned to visit you as soon as I closed down my household

in Toledo, but I felt so poorly that my Moya insisted I take to my bed for a few days.”

She gave a hollow chuckle. “And here I am. I would not be separated so long from

you and my grandson, so I finally told them to bring me here, by litter.” She paused,

staring at me. “What has happened to you? Tell me.”

I averted my eyes. “It is nothing,” I murmured. It was clear to me Cisneros had

set himself to keeping us apart, for his own unscrupulous reasons, but I would not

trouble her further. Later I would deal with the archbishop, for like Besançon before

him I now knew him for an enemy.

“I know it is not,” she said and the iron in her voice brought my eyes back to

hers. “Cisneros argued before the Cortes that you are not fit to rule. He says that

together, you and Philip will bring Spain to rule. I was most displeased with him and

told him so before my procurators.”

Her hand tightened in mine. She fixed her gaze on me. “He was wrong. I know it.

I know you can rule. You are my daughter. With a loyal council and the Cortes on

your side, you can rule as well as I and perhaps even better. It is not a mystery, this

business of wearing a crown, for all we pretend it is. Rather, it is a matter of devotion and hard labor.”

I did not hold back my tears. I let them fall. I let myself feel the incredible,

unexpected grief that swept away a lifetime of misunderstanding, of mistrust and the

struggle to assert myself against this woman who cast such an inexorable shadow over

me. Isabel of Castile had been a stranger to me for most of my life, but in that

moment, I understood her. We were joined as queen and successor, mother and

daughter; by blood and suffering and strength.

It was a gift more precious than any crown she could bequeath.

“Go.” She motioned to the desk. “Bring me that document there.”

I rose. The document lay on her faded, ink-stained leather blotter adored with

ribbons and strings of seals. From behind me she said, “We‟ve little time, my child.

Do not dawdle.”

With a smile I turned to her, document in hand. “Mamá, can‟t this wait until

later?”

“No. It is your future, Juana. You must hear what it contains. I must have your

consent.”

I returned to her. She took the vellum, regarded it in silence for a long moment.

Then she said: “This codicil makes provision for Castile after my death.”

I went still. I knew she had not ordered my detainment in La Mota, but it had

been Cisneros‟s doing, part of his plan to keep me isolated until her death. Was this

codicil the reason why?

“Mamá, is it Philip?”

She grimaced. “God save me, I wanted to secure you an annulment. I petitioned

Rome, went against everything I believed. But there are no grounds. This codicil is the

only thing I have to protect you from him.”

“Protect me?” The room abruptly darkened, as if a passing cloud muted the sky

outside. “Dear God,” I whispered. “What has he done?”

“What hasn‟t he done? Not only did he flee to France in the midst of his

investment by Aragón‟s Cortes, but he lied to us about his motive. He made no

attempt to persuade Louis away from his attack on Naples. Instead, he reaffirmed

your son Charles‟s betrothal to Louis‟ daughter and sent word that unless you return

to him, he‟ll send for you with a French-paid army. He also demanded your father

forsake his claim to Naples before it is too late. In short, he deceived us. He told us he went to France to set matters right, but instead he sat at Louis‟ feet like a dog.”

My hands clenched in my lap. I wished I could pretend I didn‟t believe it. But I

did believe it. It had been there, all the time: his arrogance and lust for power, his

weakness and thwarted rage. He had played a treacherous game even as my mother

lay dying, my father fought a bloody war in Naples and I struggled for my place in a

world he‟d torn apart. This was the man he was. This was the husband I was bound

to.

“He‟s been in France, all this time?” I finally said.

“Yes,” the compassion in her eyes sundered me. “Juana, you will never change

him. This is why I must now if you are still willing to assume my throne and all it

entails upon my death.”

I met her stare. I had no hesitation. “I am.”

“
Bien.
” She sighed. I had to fight back an overwhelming sense of loss, knowing I

would soon face the world alone. I couldn‟t imagine Spain without her.

I poured her a goblet from the decanter by the bed, held it to her mouth. Her

hand as it clasped mine quivered with the effort of holding herself upright. She fell

against the pillows with a stifled gasp, lines of pain taut about her mouth.

“Only you, Lopez, and your father will know of this codicil. It shall be kept secret

until after my death. We must not let word of it get to Philip. Already, some of the

grandes
look to their own ambitions. They will seek their advantage the moment I am gone.” Her voice lowered; as I leaned close, her gaze flickered to the closed chamber

door. I went cold. She now lived in fear― of her own court, of her high nobles and

Cisneros. She knew the wolves she‟d spent years subjugating had begun to gnaw at

their tethers.

“This codicil to my last will and testament grants you my crown as queen-

regnant,” she went on, “with the succession devolving to your sons in order of their

birth. Your husband will never rule in Spain. He will hold no lands or revenue of his

own accord; he‟ll not be granted the title of king-consort without your consent nor

pass it on to progeny not of your blood. Like you, he‟ll be bound to the Cortes for his

coronation. Your father will see to the same in his Cortes in Aragón when the time

comes. Thus shall we bind him.”

I did not move as I absorbed this mortal blow dealt to the man I had loved and

defended, the prince who in the end failed Spain.

“And your father,” she added, “will be given the governorship of Castile until you

claim your throne. He will hold the realm for you and ensure Spain stays in Spanish

hands.”

Her grip tightened. She was breathless now, betraying the return of her pain.

“Remember the Cortes, Juana: they are your ally. Only they can approve a monarch‟s

right to rule. Keep them on your side and they will see you through.”

“Yes, Mamá.” I bit my lip, her hand squeezing mine as if she might impart the last

of her ebbing strength to me.

“I wish it were different,” she whispered. “I wish I had more time to stop him.

But all I have is this codicil. This codicil and your father. I pray God, they will be

enough.”

I looked at our clasped hands. Then I said in a low voice that came from my very

soul, “I will stop him if need be, Mamá. I will fight for Spain.”

She went limp. She dropped my hand. “I― I must rest now. I am so tired.”

I sat anchored at her side, as night crept over the palace.

_________________

WINTER EBBED INTO SPRING AND STILL MY MOTHER LIVED. My women had

brought my son and my possessions to Medina del Campo. There in that intimate

palace with its arched inner patio and intricately carved windows we installed

ourselves, our every hour scheduled around her. Cisneros stayed away; a host of royal

physicians hovered, ever hopeful. Only my mother‟s most trusted Dr. de Soto dared

to tell me she suffered from a malignant growth in her stomach. The growth had

begun to affect her other organs, and he warned we would not see another recovery

as the one she‟d staged upon my arrival in Spain and the birth of my son. Knowing

this, I could only stand in awe of her spirit, which had shrugged aside even death‟s

manacle for a time.

I believed only Fernandito‟s presence and the desire to see my father again kept

her alive. Every afternoon when I brought my son to her apartments, she insisted on

rising from bed to sit on her chair, a wraith muffled in fur as she dangled his rattle and he made his first clumsy attempts to crawl. The sight of him softened her waxen

countenance; she‟d hold him in her frail arms and he would gaze at her in reverent

silence, as if he knew who she was.

It was then that I decided to leave Fernandito with her. The danger of travel aside,

whatever awaited me in Flanders was not something I would subject a babe to. He

would be safe here.

I then wrote to my father in Naples. My father had demanded absolute silence as

far as he was concerned; she knew from experience the fickle nature of war and did

not want him racing home when a victory could be at hand. I finally broke my

promise and informed him of her condition, telling him he must find a way to make

haste. I would not have a chance to see him and I didn‟t want her left alone for too

long. I also left orders with her household and guards that under no circumstances

was Cisneros to be al owed near her.

On April 11, 1504, my possessions were loaded onto my ship in the northern port

of Laredo. We made the trip to the rugged coast of Cantabria in stages, allowing the

people to see us and dispel the rumor spreading through Spain that the great Isabel

was dead. Now the wind blew strong, returning me to the day when I had first bid my

family farewell.

Nothing was the same.

The ship that would convey me to Flanders was sturdy but small, without gilded

standards; and of the hundreds who attended my last departure only my mother on

her chair, the admiral, the elderly Marquise de Moya and my women Beatriz and

Soraya stood on the dock. My son had been left behind in Madrigal under the care of

his household servants.

Involuntarily, my gaze went to the empty space where my brother and sisters had

stood. They were all gone now, the children for whom my mother had held such

hopes, scheming and sacrificing for the day when we would lift Spain to eminence

from our thrones, arranging our lives as she arranged her own, with precision and an

utter disregard for the vulgarities of fate.

I went to kneel before her. She could no longer stand. I smiled as I gazed into

eyes glassy from the narcotic draught she now relied on. She never took enough to

induce oblivion; she wanted to remain alert, but her nights had become a purgatory

and Dr. de Soto had increased the does, so she might gain a few hours‟ rest.

I hugged her close. Under the padded gown, which she wore to disguise the

wasting of her flesh, I felt bone. “Mamá,” I said, in a voice only she could hear. “I

love you.”

I felt her emotion overtake her as with a trembling hand she tucked the stray hairs

back under my hood. “II have always asked so much of you,” she said. “Be strong.

Remember who you are.” She embraced me. In my ear, she breathed, “I love you too,

hija mia.
I always loved you.”

I could not see through my haze of tears., I clung to her as I might cling to a rock

in a raging torrent. “I will come back. I promise you.”

The admiral shifted to us. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, I fear the tide will not

wait.”

Her fingers gripped mine. Then she let go. The emptiness she left seemed vast as

the sea that awaited me. She motioned to the admiral. “My lord, please see Her

Highness safely out.”

The admiral offered me his arm. I looked up into his beautiful, sad eyes and terror

gripped me, just as it had all those years ago. I could not feel my own legs as I moved

with him to the rowboat that would convey me and my two women to the ship