Beatriz set down the tray and rushed to my side. “Your Highness is ill! Oh, how many times have I asked you not to indulge in such large suppers? It is bad for the digestion.”
“You sound like Doña Ana,” I muttered. “Besides, it’s not that.”
“Then the wine. That new French claret you drank last night. I knew it smelled sour.”
“Beatriz, it is not the wine.” I looked at her. “I think…I mean, I believe I could be…”
Her eyes snapped wide. “Blessed Mary, are you saying…?”
“Yes. I think I’m with child.” Even as I spoke the words aloud, warmth suffused me. I could be carrying a son, Philip’s son, his heir. How wonderful it would be, and how fitting a tribute to my brother’s memory. If so, I vowed I would call him Juan.
“Saints be praised!” Beatriz hugged me and quickly drew back. “But you mustn’t exert yourself. Look at you, with nothing on but your shift. You’ll catch your death!” She swooped to the clothespress for a robe. “We’ll find you the best midwives and the freshest herbs: I’ve heard chamomile can do wonders. Doña Ana will know what to do. Stay here while I go fetch her.”
I had to laugh at the sight of my usually levelheaded lady acting so flustered. “Beatriz, you’re making my head spin. Stop for a moment. I don’t want you setting the entire palace to talk.”
She halted, regarding me closely, as was her wont, for we’d become like sisters, confidants who sometimes could read each other’s thoughts. “You haven’t told him,” she said.
“No, I haven’t.” I stood gingerly and took the robe from her hands. “I might be mistaken. Or not, I could miscarry. I just want to be sure.”
“First of all,” she said, pulling my hair out from under the robe’s collar and fastening the agate clasps at my waist, “you are not mistaken. Women know these things. And, second, why on earth would you miscarry? You are young. At your age, Her Majesty your mother gave birth—”
“With the ease of a mare,” I interrupted. “Yes, I’ve heard of how my mother would take to the childbed and then mount her horse again to go on crusade, all within the hour. It doesn’t mean I share her fortitude. Remember, she also suffered several miscarriages.”
“That was later, when she was older, and under great strain.” She wagged a finger in my face. “Now, no more talk of losing this child! You must take care, but you are no lily-livered Flemish girl. And you must tell His Highness.” She gave me an impish grin. “He did, after all, share in some of the effort. Shall I send him word?”
“No. Let me go. I want to tell him in person.”
PHILIP SWUNG ME ABOUT until I feared I’d be sick again. “A son! I’m going to have a son!”
I laughed. “We won’t know until it’s born,” but of course he was beyond listening. He seized me again. “I’ll proclaim the news this very hour. Let everyone rejoice! His Highness and Her Highness of Flanders are having a son!”
He could be like an exuberant boy at times, irresistible in his enthusiasm. And as he brought my mouth to his, I began to understand how much having a child would mean to us.
PHILIP HAD MY PREGNANCY PROCLAIMED THROUGHOUT FLANDERS and appointed a veritable army of physicians, apothecaries, and midwives to oversee my every whim. We traveled to the lovely city of Lierre, where the doctors deemed the air more salutary to a woman in my delicate state. The return to the spacious palace by the river where Philip and I had met, coupled with the advent of spring and sudden cessation of my nausea, proved an excellent choice. Seated in the rose bower with my embroidery forgotten in my lap, I idled for hours, contemplating the masses of tulips and marigolds that filled the gardens all the way to the Néthe’s silvery banks. I’d never seen such a profuse display since Granada. It was as though the rich soil of Flanders heaved up her beauty to entertain me. And I was fulfilled.
IN LATE APRIL, BESANÇON RETURNED TO COURT.
I had not forgiven him for the situation with my matrons but a comfortable languor came over me as a result of my pregnancy, and I was relieved when the archbishop came to offer me his congratulations and then proceeded to closet himself with Philip and their council to discuss business affairs. I refrained from asking any questions when Philip emerged at dusk from these protracted meetings to dine with me. He seemed tired and preoccupied; I did not want to tax him further. However, I started to feel a prickle of doubt, until one night when I went to his apartments dressed in my damask and jewels for our evening repast and found him waiting there with Besançon at his side.
“I thought we might dine alone tonight,” I said, with a frosty glance at the archbishop.
A nerve twitched in Philip’s cheek. “We will,” he said. “But first, please sit, my love. My lord Besançon and I have something we wish to discuss with you.”
The archbishop bowed, his broad face flushed, his bulk swathed in expensive carnelian satin. A jeweled cross hung at his chest; his hands flashed with rings. Whatever labors he’d undertaken on Philip’s behalf had clearly not affected his disposition.
“Your Highness,” he said, “such a pleasure. I trust you are in good health?” He spoke with exaggerated deference, but I caught the furtive look he exchanged with Philip. Had my husband brought us together to make amends? I sincerely hoped not.
“I’m in excellent health, my lord.” I raised my hand to caress Philip’s where it rested on my shoulder. I thought I would enjoy a show of humility from the archbishop.
“That is good.” He took a seat opposite mine. Servitors entered with a decanter of small beer, a watery ale favored by the Flemish. “For the physicians assure us you carry a son.”
The admission that he’d consulted with my doctors sent a bolt of cold reality through me.
“Well, regardless of its sex, we’ll love this child all the same.” I looked at Philip.
He said quickly, “Yes, of course. It is, after all, our first; we will no doubt have others.” He gave a chuckle that sounded strained to my ears. “Her Highness and I are still young.”
“Indeed,” I added. “And as our first child, we’ll naturally wish to oversee its upbringing.”
Besançon’s gaze narrowed. He was no more taken in by me than I was by him. This oily man had raised Philip, for better or worse; he’d made my husband into the man he was. He clearly did not welcome the intimation that I’d want a say in how my child was reared, indeed that I merited any consideration beyond that of complacent wife.
I made certain my stare did not waver. “I trust we won’t have any misunderstandings in this matter as we did in the one concerning my matrons, my lord?”
He visibly reddened. “Your Highness, that was most unfortunate. I assure you, I—”
I waved a hand. “It is done. Pray, think no more of it.” My tone made it clear that even if I chose to forgive, I would never forget.
He inclined his head. “Your Highness is most gracious.” He raised his basilisk stare to Philip. “Your Highness, perhaps we might attend now to the business at hand?”
“Yes,” I said, “by all means, let us attend.” I gave Philip my full attention.
He gulped his goblet, then without preamble declared, “My lord and I have been discussing of late the situation in Spain. In view of the fact that your parents no longer have a male heir, we believe that I could be granted precedence in the succession. In exchange, we will support your father’s claim in Naples against the French.”
I went still. I didn’t like the sound of this. “But my sister Isabella is my parents’ heir now.”
“Your sister may be heiress of Castile,” Besançon clipped, “but Salic Law prevails in Aragón. Your father’s Cortes will never recognize a woman as heir.”
I clenched my teeth. Damn him. I should have known he’d come back to court after that debacle in the Estates-General and fill Philip’s head with his grandiose ideas! I regretted having forgone giving him a full reprimand earlier, for it seemed he would repay me in false coin.
“Aragón recognized my mother,�
� I said at length. “Why not my sister?”
“Her Majesty Queen Isabel’s title as queen of Aragón is nominal, a formality set forth by your parents’ marriage treaty. Aragón retains its right of succession.”
I stared at him for a long moment, outraged that he’d dare lecture me on Spain as if I were an uninformed pupil. I would have to tread with caution. Despite the alleged informality of our gathering, I realized we had entered a potential battleground.
“You know much of our arrangements in Spain, it seems. Surely you also must know my sister Isabella has wed the new prince of Portugal. If anyone should be named infante, it is he.”
“Not necessarily. Portugal has too much power already; its claims in the New World alone rival Spain’s. If your sister’s new husband is named infante, he’ll yoke Spain to Portugal upon your parents’ deaths and rule through your sister.” Besançon sighed. “His Highness your brother’s death is a tragedy, but it can be mitigated through Spain’s alliance with us. After all, His Highness is your husband; you stand next in line to the throne and are already with child, while your sister remains barren. Our proposal will be a blessing to your parents in their time of grief.”
My alarm increased. I’d never seen myself as second in line to anything, much less the Spanish throne. My brother had always been the one who would rule, and his sons after him. Though my sisters and I had an exemplary education, for my mother did not believe a woman should be refused the advantages of literacy, our ultimate purpose was the role of queen consorts to our royal husbands. We’d been trained to be erudite but not overly so, conversant on many subjects but experts on none, to be decorous and accomplished and always discreet.
None of us was trained to rule.
I glanced at Philip. He gave me a cautious smile. “We’re thinking of the future of Spain, Juana. Your parents have not been long on their thrones. You yourself told me of all the troubles they face. Your brother’s loss could incite unrest among the nobles; and should Aragón refuse to acknowledge your sister as the new heir, who knows what may ensue?”
I knotted my hands over my belly. I couldn’t yet feel my child, but I wished I could. I needed a reminder of the recent happiness I’d felt and which this conversation had vanquished like a finger snuffing out a candlewick.
As if on cue, Besançon stood. “I will go now, with Your Highness’s leave.”
Philip nodded; I did not look at the archbishop as he waddled out. The moment I heard the door shut, I raised my eyes to Philip. He regarded me for a moment. Then he sank to his knees before my chair and took my hands in his.
“There is a very real threat from France. No one knows what Louis intends, but both Besançon and I heard rumors while at the Estates that he seeks a more aggressive stance over Naples than his predecessor. Spain and France are longtime foes: I hardly need tell you what a war between them could mean to your parents—and to us.”
I nodded, frightened now. My father had warned me about Louis. He’d told me the new king of France lacked scruple or conscience. My parents’ treasuries were bankrupt; a conflict with a nation as large and rich as France would bring disaster upon my native land, only recently united under my parents’ rule and still seeking its foothold amid the established powers of Europe.
“Do you think…?” I paused, then swallowed. “Do you think he’ll declare war?”
“I don’t know. If he does, he’ll not warn of it beforehand. But if I am named into the succession he may think before he acts. He won’t want us and your parents allied against him.” Philip sat back on his heels. “Besançon wants to send an envoy to Castile to present my proposal to your mother. I would like you to add a letter, explaining that you support my endeavors.”
I started. “A letter?” I let out a tight laugh. “You do not know my mother. My brother is scarcely cold in his grave. She’ll find the timing of this most ill advised.”
“Your brother has been dead nearly six months. Your mother is a queen; she’ll understand.”
I saw Besançon’s hand in this, manipulating Philip into thinking such a scheme was possible.
“Be that as it may,” I said carefully, “I still think she’ll take it as an insult. You are not of Spanish blood. How can she name you into the succession, even if she wanted to? Both her and my father’s Cortes would refuse.”
He frowned. “This isn’t about legislation: it’s about my royal rights.”
I resisted an impatient sigh. “Philip, in Spain the Cortes represents the nobility and the people’s interests. It must first invest a sovereign before he can legally claim the throne; it’s a formality, yes, but it’s always held that Spain must have a Spanish-born king.”
“Are we to be dictated to by warlords and merchants, then?” he muttered. “I’m not asking to be king,” he added, with a forced smile. “I just want my name entered in the succession as a safeguard and the title of infante. After we have our son, he can assume this right. He shares both our bloods. He can inherit, yes?”
“Philip, our child isn’t even born yet. I might bear a daughter.”
“You won’t.” He leaned to me. “Will you write the letter? I need your help.”
What else could I do? If he was going to present his proposition regardless, an accompanying letter from me might ease the effrontery of it, perhaps smooth the way toward a compromise.
He kissed my cheek. “Now, I won’t have you worrying about this. Write the letter and leave the rest to Besançon. Remember, you have our son to take care of.”
His conviction troubled me only a little less than the announcement that he’d relegate our policies to the archbishop. I couldn’t help but fear we were in for a rude surprise. I knew my mother. She would not rest until Castile and Aragón invested Isabella as heir. And she’d not take kindly to any proposal that suggested otherwise, regardless of its goal.
After we dined together, I returned to my rooms, wondering how to explain my dilemma in a letter. I owed Philip my loyalty as his wife and he wished to extend his support. My mother had instructed me—indeed, commanded me—to uphold Spain’s interests above all else, but she never explained that sometimes these situations were not as clear as they looked. Still, as I sat before my desk with a blank page and quill, I could imagine my parents’ anxiety over Louis of France’s ambition, their crushing grief over Juan. Philip was right: everything they had fought for hung in the balance. Without a male heir, Castile and Aragón could be torn apart, fall prey to the avarice of the nobility. Maybe my father and mother had already thought ahead; maybe they would welcome Philip’s proposal. And if I did bear a son, as so many believed, he’d have my blood. My parents’ legacy would live on through him.
I sighed, glancing at my belly. I took up my quill.
Inking the sharpened tip, I began to write.
SUMMER SLIPPED TOWARD FALL, AND I OCCUPIED MYSELF WITH preparations for my child’s birth. The chamber selected for me would be lavish, the bed upholstered in the finest cloth, the tapestry hangings woven especially in Bruges for the occasion. In my apartments, I spent hours inspecting fabric samples sent by all the burghers eager to curry my patronage with their wares.
“That peach satin.” I pointed to the sample Beatriz held up. “It would lighten the chamber curtains, don’t you think, seeing as the windows must remain shuttered.” I scowled. “It all seems most primitive. Why must I give birth like a bear in a cave?”
Beatriz rolled her eyes in sympathy and reached over to extract a green velvet sample from the pile at her feet. “What about this one? It would look lovely with the amber satin coverlet.”
I nodded. “Yes. We’ll ask for ten yards, and—” I glanced up, hearing noise in the antechamber. The door opened. Besançon strode in, his satin robes billowing.
“Leave us,” he told Beatriz. “I wish to speak with Her Highness alone.”
Beatriz looked at me. I nodded.
I could not believe he had dared to barge into my rooms unannounced. We’d never been alone before
; seeing him now in all his fulsome glory made me want to rebuke him for everything he had done. I did not, because I expected Philip to follow; when my husband failed to appear, I said coldly, “Yes, my lord? What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
He returned my stare in absolute silence. I could tell he was angry; his already florid cheeks were even redder, making him look like an over-baked boar. “We’ve received Her Majesty your mother’s answer to our proposal,” he said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded parchment. He dropped it into my lap. “I suggest Your Highness read it and see the high esteem in which Her Majesty holds us.”
I did not touch the paper. I could guess its contents. “Perhaps you should tell me,” I replied, “seeing as you’ve apparently come here to that purpose.”
“Very well. She advises that as His Highness your husband has no legal rights in Spain, she can only assume we’ve suffered an unfortunate lapse in judgment. She orders us to respect the decision of her Cortes to declare your sister Isabella’s child as her heir.”
I sat upright. “Isabella’s child? My sister is pregnant?”
“She is. Seven months, in fact. Her midwives have assured your parents the child is male. He will be named heir to Castile and Aragón. A clever twist, is it not? Your sister’s babe will be king not only of Spain but also of Portugal. No yoking of the great realm to its neighbor now—no, it’s to be the other way around. I believe Her Majesty has set herself to building an empire.”
My hands closed over the letter. I clenched my teeth against the retort that he was not fit to wipe Her Majesty’s riding boots.
I heard him say, “Your Highness doesn’t seem surprised.”
I met his stare. “Of course, I am. I had no idea Isabella was pregnant.”
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