The Scroll of Seduction (22 page)

 

“WHEN HER FEARS ABOUT PHILIPPE'S INFIDELITY WERE PROVEN AND
she was faced with the certainty of it, all Juana's good intentions flew out the window. She couldn't keep her cool. She had to go out into the night
to prowl, to stalk her love; she had to stab holes in the wooden horse's belly over and over again, to ensure that there were no soldiers hiding there. Your mother did the same.

“Don't put on any clothes. There's no need for the gown. For this part of the story, you're better off nude. Vulnerable. Like Juana.”

 

SINCE CONFESSING HIS GUILT, PHILIPPE MADE AN EFFORT TO BEHAVE
like a loving husband and gave me beautiful gifts: an exquisite, red velvet-covered Grimaldi breviary, illustrated by the Master of the David Scenes. The miniatures were beautiful. I appeared in several of them, and others illustrated figures holding our coats of arms. Philippe's read “Who will dare?” and mine responded “I will dare.” We had thought of that motto when we got married, that he and I would dare as much to love each other as to take on anything fate dealt us.

Fate might have dealt me another life if I had forgotten my husband's infidelity the way my mother had forgotten my father's dalliances. But I had no desire to be queen, and at that moment I loved the freedom of not having to be one, thinking that my mother still had a long life ahead of her. Theodore still tried to calm me with his aromatic teas, but I hardly stopped to taste them now. I had no idea whether or not Philippe was keeping his promise of not dwelling on the redhead, but
I
did nothing but think of her. I reinitiated the evening sewing sessions with my ladies solely to watch her, to denude her with my eyes. She was very fair and had light, downy peach fuzz covering her skin; caught in the sun, it shone like a radiant halo. She favored brown and blue gowns. Her hair was truly beautiful, thick, curly, and shiny as burnished copper as it spilled down her back. I learned through gossip and breaches of confidence that it was this fiery mane that had first driven Philippe wild. I could not bear to look at her without burning with the desire to rip it from her head, lock by lock, imagining the lurid details of my torture as I sat primly and embroidered cross-stitch. She avoided my eyes, concentrating on her needles, and when she thought I was distracted, she'd laugh with the others, leaving me distraught at her irreverence. She would have no cause to laugh that way–nor my ladies any cause to
treat her with deference–I thought, if she felt defeated or had truly learned her lesson. I pricked my fingers trying to interpret her glances and gestures, keeping watch over her and not my knitting. One afternoon while we were embroidering and I, concentrated on my work, eavesdropped on their conversation about the never-ending battle for control of Naples, I caught a glimpse of the redhead out of the corner of my eye, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she showed the others something concealed in her bodice. Their excitement might have gone overlooked by anyone who was not waiting for it, but it did not slip me by.

Without giving myself even a moment to contemplate my actions rationally, I sat up straight as a board and then leaped out of my chair. I dove onto Philippe's lover amid the crash of furniture and swishing silk. She jumped back, attempting to cover her chest with her hands, but she was no contest for me. Like a hawk swooping down on its prey, claws extended, I threw her to the ground, my knees on her rib cage. The sound of ripping cloth could be heard over the other ladies' cries. I shoved my hand into her bodice and wrenched out the letter she'd tucked in there. The redhead whimpered and covered her face as I tried to scratch her. Madame de Hallewin grabbed hold of me by the shoulders and pulled me away, with the help of Ana de Viamonte and a few other women. Brandishing the note in my hand, I regained enough control to order them all to leave me be. I threw them all out, even my poor Madame de Hallewin and the Spanish ladies, shrieking as loud as I could in order to scare them.

Slamming and locking the door, I leaned up against the wood and then slid down to the floor, closing my eyes and trying to stop panting. I held the note to my face, in search of Philippe's scent, praying to God that it not be so. Please, God, no. Please. But then I began to cry, because my intuition knew better what I was about to confirm.

I read. “Madame: Nothing has changed. After the vespers bells, in the library. Yours. Philippe.”

“Who will dare? I will dare.” My mind was set on pronouncing the ensign of my marriage over and over again. My thoughts could only repeat those words.

After a short while I stood. I made my way to the woven sewing basket, took out three pairs of Toledan steel scissors and lay them on the table. Then I walked into my sleeping chambers. I splashed water on my face, fixed my hair and looked in the mirror. I was beautiful too. My cheeks were flushed. I gulped down several glasses of wine from Philippe's decanter. Then I waited a prudent time before unlocking the door and ordering my guards to call all the ladies in my court immediately. All of them.

They walked in one by one with their heads bowed, the redhead hiding at the center of the group. They gathered very close together beside the table in the middle of the room where I awaited them. Madame de Hallewin approached me with the clear intention of exchanging a few words out of earshot of the others. Raising a hand, I stopped her in her tracks. My compatriots gazed at me in fear and solidarity both. I smiled at them, calm, intuiting the curiosity and fear that overwhelmed them. I bade Blanca and María, my Spanish attendants, to sit the redhead in the chair beside the table. They exchanged glances, and I repeated my order, louder. The redhead began to cry. Madame de Hallewin interrupted. “What will you do, my lady?” But they sat her down. I approached and tied her hands behind her back with some colored ribbon I had left atop the table. The women held their breath, fascinated, as if they were about to bear witness to an execution and could not, would not, do anything to stop it. Slowly, parsimoniously, I unclipped the redhead's hair, letting it fall loosely around her shoulders. I stroked it. It was soft, silky. I thought of Philippe's hands. Then I took the scissors and slowly, deliberately, began to cut it, possessed by the snipping noise the scissors made, hearing it ring louder than the women's exclamations, the victim's sobs. I couldn't stop. I cut and cut, faster and faster. Who will dare? I will dare. And the locks fluttered to the floor. Who will dare? I will dare. And there was more snipping, more sobbing, until I saw her translucent scalp and then stood back to see what she had become: an ugly boy, her face all red, her swollen nose dripping snot onto her skirt.

I sat down on a chair afterward, the scissors on my lap. Madame de Hallewin untied my victim. All the ladies rushed out. Who will dare? I
will dare. Then I gathered up the curls from the floor and scattered them all over Philippe's pillow.

 

WHEN PHILIPPE ARRIVED I WAS CALM, EMPTY. HE CHARGED AS IF
he were riding a furious steed, rushing to defeat his opponent in a tournament. He grabbed me by the hair and began to slap and hit me, insulting me and calling me names. He would never make love to me again. He detested me. How dare I? People were right to say I'd lost my wits, I was mad. The redhead (he said her name, I can't recall it) deserved nothing but love; the love he gave her and would keep giving her, regardless of how I tried to stop him. Who will dare? I will dare, I shouted. Oh, do you? he asked, raising his hand once more. This time I turned, but his hand still glanced the edge of my right cheek. I lost my balance and fell to the floor, but he dragged me up by my gown, forcing me to stand once more. His eyes were wild with fury, his hands brutal. In the end, I became frightened. I had the presence of mind to realize that, as with wild animals, the most prudent thing was to keep perfectly still. I stood motionless in the middle of the room, my hands crossed over my skirt, my head bowed. Whatever he did, he could not touch my soul. At least that was what I thought at the time. My tranquility infuriated him. He shook me by the shoulders, but I was as limp as a lifeless doll, having gone to a space he could not touch with his hands. I think he realized, because finally he ceased his attack and left, slamming the door. When I tried to leave my rooms, I found that the door was locked from the outside. I spent all night banging on it, hurling objects against it, anything that would crash and then fall to the floor and break into a thousand pieces, anything I could lay my hands on. Philippe would be made to hear my riot. Whenever he didn't spend the night with me, he slept in the chambers just below mine. I wanted to make noise to communicate my fury, the degree of my inconformity and rage. Wrapped in my ire, my body aching from his blows, I stayed awake all night. The following day, Philippe sent Theodore de Leyden to my rooms. Still stinging from the events of the day before, I was pacing back and forth, contemplating the detritus left behind from my indignation. When Theodore walked in, I
dropped into a chair, relieved that it was he who had arrived. I could not allow Philippe to lock me up and just keep quiet, without protest, I said by way of justification. It was indefensible that he should lock me in my rooms. That was why I had determined not to let him get any sleep. Theodore looked at me as he picked up pieces of jugs and mirrors, placing them delicately on the round table in the corner, as if he'd decided to make a mosaic. When I stopped speaking, he came up and smiled softly, paternally. He sat down beside me, arranging his baggy trousers. He had the habit of playing with his rings while he thought.

 

“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE, LUCÍA?”

“I don't understand Philippe. His cruelty is beyond my comprehension. I mean, I don't understand my father either, but at least my mother had the option of divorcing him. I admire Juana. She had no options, but she decided to rebel, to confront the situation and not keep her mouth shut. That must have been almost unheard of back then, so good for her, that's what I think.”

“Well, Theodore de Leyden suggested more subtle tactics. Perhaps more along the lines of what Isis recommended to your mother. You couldn't fight desire with rage, he said. You had to fight it with more desire. Philippe was not indifferent to Juana's feminine charms. So rather than behave boorishly and give him more reason to justify his infidelity, she should brandish the most intimate weapons of her sex. Theodore was of the opinion that if she cast the nets of her seduction, if she caught his attention with perfumes and used love to heal the wounds of their separation, her husband would be unable to resist. And what better revenge than regaining his love so that all and sundry could see that Philippe still loved her? Thanks to Theodore, the Moorish slaves Juana had brought on her voyage from Laredo came back on the scene, the same women who had consoled her during those two months she spent waiting for the stormy seas to subside.

 

THE MOORISH WOMEN KNEW ALL ABOUT LOVE POTIONS AND SPELLS.
They wouldn't betray or scorn me. I put Fatima in charge of the group. Born in Algeciras, she was tall and brawny. She had strong hands and few
qualms about speaking her mind. I liked her Andalusian accent, and I found the traits of her character comforting, for she had lived fully and seen enough not to be scandalized by anything. Besides, Philippe would take no interest in her because she had a manly build. Contrary to what one might guess from her personality, Fatima was very delicate in everything she did, whether washing my hair or giving me massages with citrus-scented oils. She called for a copper tub to be brought to my room so that I could soak in long baths. But no matter how moist and silky my skin became, inside I was a cracked, parched desert. I am dried up and dried out, I thought, and when I closed my eyes I could see my mother's musty skin and imagined her as Beatriz described her in her letters, prostrate with fevers and thirsty day and night. “The queen is very ill. You should prepare yourself, and think that soon you shall inherit these realms.” With my eyes closed, I tried to picture myself ruling not just Castile and Aragon but the new territories discovered by Admiral Christopher Columbus. I could recall the admiral on his visit to my parents after his first journey. He had returned to Spain on January 4, 1493, but he did not arrive in Barcelona until April. In the plaza before Santa Clara Church, he approached the golden canopy where we stood, accompanied by six half-naked savages he'd brought from the New World, their bodies painted in red-black designs, their hair adorned with bones and feathers. Others in their procession carried cages with colorful birds that looked more like flowers than animals. I recalled the tray of gold pieces shaped like monkeys and lizards that he offered my parents, the scent of the tobacco leaves and the never-before-seen cocoa beans, which we now used to make chocolate. Perhaps during my reign I would organize an expedition so that Philippe and I could travel to see the crystal-clear seas they had called the Caribbean and the jungles full of unfamiliar animals. The idea of those lands, surrounded by water, inhabited by primitive peoples, noble savages who possess an innocence we have lost, is so seductive. The descriptions of those who have been in the Indies have let my dreams and fantasies run wild.

The baths and perfumes, combined with my endearments, had the desired effect. Philippe and I made up. The passion we shared together before that cursed year I spent alone in Spain was the memory I clung to
with my eyes squinted shut when we made love. But often I felt we were not alone in bed. Other bodies, like specters, slipped in between the sheets. Copper curls, feminine faces, peeked out like ghosts from behind the curtains. I caught the whiff of unknown smells and imagined that Philippe, his hands on my breasts, was dreaming of other contours, and that he fed his pleasure by evoking what he did on the nights I was absent. As we panted in unison, without his noticing, I scrutinized his face in search of memories he kept concealed behind closed eyes. At those moments, I yearned to stab my fingers into his eyeballs, to wrench the visions from his sockets. I pretended to moan in pleasure, but I was consumed by jealousy and whimpered, instead, from rage and impotence. My love had turned into an anguished need to possess him, to ensure that, whatever the price, my lover was mine and mine alone.