Her chamber was small, illumined by braziers and candelabra. A large window at the far wall overlooked the valley. Books and papers sat piled on the desk. The tarnished and chipped silver sword of the Reconquest, which my mother had had carried before her at every battle, hung prominently on the wall. Her bed was nestled in a corner, half-hidden by a carved sandalwood screen. In keeping with her personal asceticism, the marble floors were bare.
I knelt on the threshold. “I beg permission to enter Your Majesty’s presence.”
My mother emerged from the shadows by her desk. “You have my leave. Enter and close the door.”
I could not see her face. Pausing at the appropriate distance, I curtsied again.
“You can come closer,” she said dryly.
I stepped forward, wondering (as I had for as long as I could remember) if she liked what she saw. Though I stood almost a hand taller than her, I still felt like a little girl hoping for praise.
She moved into the light cast by the candles. My trepidation must have shown, for she said, “What do you see, hija, that you must stare at me thus?”
I immediately lowered my eyes.
“I wish you’d cease that habit. Since you were a babe, you’ve always stared at everything as if it were on display for your inspection.” She motioned at the stool by her desk. Once I had sat, she regarded me again in silence. “Do you know why I’ve called for you?”
“No, Mamá,” I said, in sudden dread.
“It should be to chastise you. Doña Ana informed me that you left your sisters and sewing this afternoon to take Catalina into the gardens. I understand you often disappear like that, without word or leave. What is the meaning of these excursions?”
Her question took me aback; she rarely expressed interest in my private thoughts. I said quietly, “I like to be alone sometimes, so I can observe things.”
She took her seat on her upholstered chair before the desk. “What on earth could be so fascinating that you must be alone to observe it?”
I couldn’t tell her about the bats. She’d never understand. “Nothing in particular,” I said. “I like my solitude, is all. I’m always surrounded by servants and tutors and Doña Ana nagging at me.”
“Juana, their duty is to guide you.” She leaned to me, her voice firm. “When will you realize you cannot do as you please? First, it was your fascination with everything Moorish. You even insisted on having that slave girl serve you, and now this odd penchant for solitude. Surely, you must have a reason for such unusual behavior.”
My shoulders tensed. “I don’t think it’s so unusual.”
“Oh?” She arched her brow. “You are sixteen years old. When I was your age, I was fighting for Castile. I didn’t have time or inclination to indulge in pastimes that perturbed my elders. Nor, I should think, do you. Doña Ana says you are rebellious and willful, and dispute her every word. This is not the behavior of an infanta of the House of Trastámara. You are a descendant of kings. You must behave according to your rank.”
Her reprimand wasn’t unfamiliar and still it stung, as she knew it would. How could I compare my thus far insignificant life with her monumental achievements? Satisfied with my silence, she pulled a candle close, opened a portfolio, and removed a sheet of vellum.
“This letter is for you.”
I had to stop myself from snatching it out of her hand. “Is it from Papá? Is he coming to visit us? Will he bring Juan with him?”
I regretted my words the moment they were uttered. Her voice tightened. “Your father and brother are still in Aragón. This letter is from the archduke Philip.” She handed it to me. “Pray, read it aloud. It’s in French, a language I prefer not to speak.”
Had she come all this way to bring me another boring letter from the Habsburg court? I began to feel relieved when it occurred to me that if she’d come to Granada just for this, it must be important. In sudden concern, I studied the vellum in my hand. It was expensive, a supple skin scraped and softened to the consistency of paper. Otherwise, it seemed much like the other, periodic letters that had come over the years, until I noticed sentences scratched out, denoting a clumsy hand with the quill. I glanced at the signature: A scrolling P, stamped by the Habsburg eagle insignia. This must be a letter from Philip himself.
“I am waiting,” my mother said.
I started to read, translating the words into Spanish: “ ‘I have received the letter Your Highness lately sent to me, from which I perceive your affection. I assure you that your noble words could not be sweeter to any man’s ears, nor your promise more gratifying—’ ” I frowned. “What letter does he speak of? I’ve never written to him.”
“No,” she said. “I have. Go on.”
I returned to the letter. “ ‘More gratifying to one who shares your devotion. I must tell you what earnest love I feel knowing I shall soon see Your Highness. I pray that your arrival here, and my sister Margaret’s departure for Spain, may thus be hastened, so that the love between us and our countries can be fulfilled.’ ” I looked up in sudden comprehension. “He…he speaks of marriage.”
My mother reclined in her chair. “He does. It is time you go to Flanders to wed Philip and for his sister Margaret to come here as a bride for your brother.” She paused. “Is that all he says?”
I found it difficult to breathe. The letter swam before my eyes. “There’s a postscript here from someone named Besançon. He advises me to learn French, as it is the language spoken at the Flemish court.”
“Besançon.” My mother grimaced. “He may be Flanders’s premier archbishop, but he is too French in his manner by far, though he knows how we feel about that nation of wolves.” Her gaze turned distant. “No matter. France will be put in its place soon enough. That realm has bedeviled us for years, encroaching on Aragón and threatening your father’s right to Naples. It’s time we put an end to their effrontery.”
A taut smile crossed her lips. “The emperor Maximilian and I have agreed to forgo any dowries, what with the cost of transport these days, but upon his death his son, Philip, will inherit his empire, while his daughter, Margaret, will inherit several important territories in Burgundy. And once your sister Catalina weds the English heir, we shall become an even greater power, with familial ties across Europe, and France will never dare meddle in our affairs again.”
I sat rooted to my stool. How could she speak of politics when my entire existence had just been overturned? She expected me to leave my home, my family, for an unknown land and husband, so she could strike at France? This couldn’t be happening, not to me.
My voice shook. “But why me? What have I done to deserve this?”
She gave an arid chuckle. “You speak as if it were a punishment. This cannot come as a surprise; you know you’ve been promised to Philip since you were three.” She fixed me with her stare. “I trust you haven’t forgotten the importance of doing your duty for Spain?”
I heard the warning in her tone, and for the first time in my life I forgot it was not wise, or beneficial, to argue with Isabel of Castile. All I could think of in that moment was that she would never have abandoned Spain. How could she expect me to?
I lifted my eyes. “I haven’t forgotten. But I do not wish to marry Philip of Habsburg.”
I saw her hands tighten upon her chair’s chiseled armrests. “May I ask why?”
“Because I…I don’t love him. He is a stranger to me.”
“Is that all? I didn’t know your father when we first wed, yet that didn’t stop me from doing my duty. Through our marriage, Spain was united under God. Our duty came first, but love soon followed. Those whom God has joined will always find love.”
“But Papá is Spanish, from Aragón. You didn’t have to leave.”
“Few royal women can wed their countrymen. I was blessed with your father, yes, but many of Castile’s nobles fought our marriage at first, as you well know. They didn’t believe Fernando was worthy to be my consort. The grandes wanted me to wed one of them inste
ad and seize Aragón for Castile, so they could add to their power. Indeed, they almost forced me to it. But God’s will prevailed. He brought Fernando and me together so Aragón and Castile could join against the heretic, and now he unites you and Philip for Spain.”
I bristled. “Papá was worthy. He was a prince and became Aragón’s king, as well as your king consort. What is Flanders but a paltry duchy and Philip a mere archduke?”
“He may be an archduke, but he’s also the emperor’s heir. And while Flanders is a duchy, it’s far from paltry. As part of the Habsburg Empire, it oversees the Low Countries and guards their borders against the French. Moreover, it is prosperous and peaceful. Why, Philip’s subjects are so devoted to him they call him ‘the Fair.’ And he is only a year older than you. Any princess would be overjoyed to wed such a man.”
“Then send him another,” I retorted, before I could stop myself. “Maria isn’t promised to anyone. She could replace me and he’d never know the difference. It’s not as if we’ve met.”
“Replace you?” She sat upright. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you defy me.”
I flinched. “I…I don’t mean to, Mamá. But if I must wed, I’d prefer a Spanish lord.”
The clap of her ringed hands on the chair rang out. “Enough! A Spanish lord, indeed. As if I’d ever give a daughter of mine to one of those vultures who call themselves grandes! They ruined Spain with their avarice and ambition; were it not for me, they’d still have us in chaos while they stuff their purses with Moorish gold. Have you not heard a word I’ve said? You will be a Habsburg empress. I have chosen you for this great task.”
I should have been scared; I should have realized I had lost this battle. Instead, in a steely voice I hardly recognized I said, “I never asked for it.”
She stood with an angry exhalation and paced to the window. The seconds passed like years. When she finally spoke, her voice cut through me. “You will do as you are told. Flanders is a respectable kingdom, which Philip has ruled since childhood. His lineage is impeccable, and his court renowned for its culture. I assure you, you’ll find yourself right at home.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. I saw my childhood vanishing before me like an illusion, my carefree afternoon in the gardens the last I’d ever enjoy again. I didn’t care about Philip’s reputation or his court. Nothing he had could ever equal the beauty of Spain.
A chasm opened inside me. “Mamá, please. Must I do this?”
She turned about. “The Cortes has given its consent, and the betrothal documents are signed. I cannot disregard the welfare of Castile because you wish it so.”
The room keeled about me. I barely heard her as she returned to her desk. “You’ll not go to Flanders alone. Doña Ana shall go with you as your head matron, and you’ll have a household to attend you. And Philip will of course see to your well-being, as a good husband should. You will see these fears of yours are but the nerves of a new bride. We’ve all felt them in our time.”
My entourage had been selected; she’d even determined how my husband would treat me. In that moment, I saw Boabdil as he kneeled in the charred earth before her.
I bit back a hot surge of tears. I would not grovel. “When?” I asked. “When must I go?”
“Not for a year at least, though we’ve much to do.” Her tone turned brisk. “I know how advanced you are in your studies, yet seeing as you’ve little occasion to practice your French, I will find an experienced tutor to assist you. You must also continue to perfect your music and dance. It seems the Flemish value such skills.”
There it was: my future laid out with the precision she’d shown in her battle against the Moors. I was but another soldier in her army, another cannon in her arsenal.
In that moment I hated her.
She inked her quill, drew her stack of papers close. “Now I’ve work to attend to. Tomorrow, after your lessons, we’ll compose your reply to Philip. Give me a kiss and go say your prayers.”
Tomorrow seemed a lifetime away. I could not feel my legs yet somehow I managed to graze her cheek with my lips, curtsy, and walk to the door. When I reached it, I paused with my hand on the latch. I thought she would relent, call me back, because she couldn’t let me leave like this.
But she was already bent over her dispatches.
I walked out, past the women into the passageway, the letter gripped in my fingers. Soraya rose from her crouch with a questioning look. I couldn’t return to my chambers. My sisters would be awake and waiting. They’d not let me alone until they pried the news from me and then—oh God, then I’d start bawling like a child, like an idiot, like Isabella in her endless grief! I couldn’t face them. Not yet. I needed time alone, somewhere private to vent my rage and sorrow.
I yanked up my skirts and began to run, narrowly avoiding startled sentries and slave girls, who dropped into hasty curtsies, spilling baskets of sun-dried linens. I fled as if pursued, running and running until I burst, breathless, into an open courtyard, Soraya close behind.
The scent of jasmine washed over me. Above, a sickle moon hung suspended in a dazzling spangled night. I heard water spill from the stone lions ringing the fountain; my feet soaked in the waterways as I slowly turned about to stare at the Alhambra’s curving arches, the intricate pediments and sculpted marble.
The silence was a presence. Everything had changed. This world I loved so much, it would not mourn me. It would not even feel my absence. It would continue on, agelessly indifferent in its beauty, its walls absorbing the echoes of its departed.
I felt Soraya at my side. As her hand enfolded mine, I let my tears fall in furious silence.
THREE
We departed Granada for Castile in the evening, to avoid the worst of the heat. The trip would be tedious, with weeks of riding on our hard-backed mules; and as we took the winding mountain road downward into the valleys of Andalucia, I stared over my shoulder.
The Alhambra reclined on its hill, tinted amethyst in the dusk. Above its towers, the sky unfurled like violet cloth, spangled with spun-glass stars. A few peasants lined the road to wave at us; in the many farms dotting the landscape, dogs barked. It was like the end of any summer, as though we’d return again next year as always. Then we rode past the tumble of stones by the roadside where it was said Boabdil had taken his last look at Granada and wept.
Like him, I wondered if I would ever see my cherished palace again.
THREE WEEKS LATER, WE REACHED THE ARID PLATEAU OF CASTILE and the city of Toledo. Perched on its cragged hill above the river Tagus, Toledo caught the sunset as we approached—a beautiful tumble of white and ocher buildings crowned by the cathedral. I’d always liked the narrow winding streets and the smell of baking bread in the morning, the burst of sudden flowers glimpsed in a courtyard from behind cloister gates, and the glorious Mudejar archways engraved with the secrets of the vanquished Moor.
Now I saw it as a prison, where my future had been decided without me. Toledo was the official gathering place of the Castilian Cortes, that advisory council of lords and officials elected by each major city in Castile. My mother had curtailed the flagrant power of the Cortes from the anarchy prior her reign; however, she still had to appeal to this body to sanction taxes and other major expenditures, as well as royal unions and investiture of her succession.
These same Cortes had approved my betrothal.
As we rode up the steep road toward the Alcázar, I compressed my lips. I’d barely spoken the entire trip, and my ill temper only increased once I found myself within that old castle, a cavernous warren with walls that were always damp to the touch. After the oleander-dusted patios of the Alhambra, it felt suffocating, and to make matters worse, here my French lessons began in earnest, supervised by a humorless tutor who subjected me to interminable lectures and the painstaking daily recitation of vowels.
He drilled me four hours a day, his accent as sour as his breath. I took cold comfort in deliberately mutilating my verbs and watching him turn white with an
ger; until one afternoon as he droned on and I sat with hands clenched, I heard the clatter of hooves entering the bailey.
I ran to the narrow embrasure. I could scarcely see into the bailey, craning my face against the window slit to catch a glimpse of the arrivals.
“Mademoiselle,” the tutor rapped. “Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît!”
I ignored him. When I spied the tethered stallions caparisoned in scarlet, I promptly flew from the classroom, leaving him standing there, aghast.
I dashed down the stone staircase. A group of Castilian nobles appeared ahead, making their way to the sala mayor, the great hall. I spun around, yanking at my cumbersome skirts, and made haste to the minstrel gallery. If only I could reach him before my mother did, convince him to—
I cursed under my breath when I espied courtiers already assembled in the hall. I could not go in now without an escort, and I crouched instead behind the screen concealing the gallery from the sala, to watch as the lords of my father’s court strode in.
When I saw my father with them, I sighed in relief.
His red cloak was flung over his shoulders. The wool would smell as he did, of horse and wine, and his own sweat. Mud-spattered boots hugged legs thick with the muscles of a lifetime spent in the saddle. He wasn’t tall, but he seemed to tower over all as he swept his cap from his head, revealing close-cropped dark hair. With cap in fist and one hand cocked at his hip, he surveyed the ranks of Castile with a grin before he bellowed: “Isabel, mi amor, I am home!”
I clapped a hand to my mouth. How the nobles hated it when he yelled like that! His trademark entrance, it conveyed his ebullient love for his wife and disdain for Castile’s rigid protocol. To the grandes of my mother’s court, it was yet another sign of his uncouth Aragonese blood, and their faces hardened accordingly.
History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 3
