History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by Gortner, C. W.

  Footsteps fled.

  I started to laugh at the absurdity of it all until a pain unlike any I had experienced suffocated my mirth. Doña Ana emerged from under my skirts, her hood askew. “I can see the child’s head. Push, mi niña. Push as if your life depended on it.”

  “Push?” I shrieked. “I can’t! It’ll break me in two!”

  “It will break you if you don’t,” she said, with steel in her voice. “Do it. Ahora!”

  I braced myself, clutching the edge of the stool with one hand, the other digging into Beatriz as she knelt beside me. Hauling breath through my teeth, I pushed with all my strength.

  Doña Ana thrust again under my gown, which was now hiked past my waist. “Almost there. Push one more time. Yes, that’s it. Let nature do its work.”

  Soraya returned with the swaddling cloths and herb chest. I screamed, feeling an enormous obstacle prying me open. The pain was searing, all-encompassing; just as I thought I could take no more of it, something slipped loose and a vast, wet relief swept through me.

  “The child,” gasped Doña Ana. “Quick! Give me the scissors!”

  Soraya jerked forward. A lumpy mass gushed from between my legs. In swift succession, I watched Doña Ana grab hold of a small, bloody body, nip with the scissors, and swat with her free hand. As a wail ruptured the silence, I collapsed against Beatriz. I wanted to ask if the child was healthy, if it was a boy, but my mouth was tinder-dry. Doña Ana took a vial from her coffer and rubbed the wailing infant in marigold ointment, then started swaddling it in the linen cloths.

  An urgent clamor approached the privy. “My child,” I whispered. “Give it to me.”

  I forced myself to sit up. Doña Ana set the babe in my arms. She hadn’t finished the dressing, but the babe ceased crying when it felt me, and as I glanced at it, a thrill surged inside me.

  I looked up to see Philip peering in, his eyes wide at the sight of the sweat-soaked women and me, spread-eagled in my bloodied finery.

  I reached up, extending the child to him. “Behold your son.”

  And as he gazed through his tears at our boy in his arms, I laughed aloud, in triumph.

  ELEVEN

  I turned twenty-one in 1500, an age when most women of my rank have begun to settle into the rest of their lives. I had given birth to a healthy daughter and a son and had endured some of the trials every marriage undergoes. I could now look forward to a time of maturity and satisfaction, content in the rearing of my children and my role as patroness of my adopted realm.

  I had the examples of countless predecessors to advise me: charity and the benefice of abbeys and convents, of the poor and the fallen, were the purview of privileged women like me. My education had prepared me since childhood for these tasks. My sisters and I had been taught that our power must be confined by our gender, that we would not rule but rather care for our husbands and their subjects in a manner that was neither obtrusive nor compromising. We would plant gardens, not monuments; we would leave echoes, not legends.

  No one ever expected us to become anything other than what we were.

  GHENT WAS A MARVELOUS CITY, ONE OF MY FAVORITES IN FLANDERS. With its steepled houses and their multicolored eaves, its stone bridges arching over the canal, bustling mercantile areas and majestic Gothic spires, it epitomized the enthusiastic Flemish spirit. The climate was rarely harsh (indeed, I never ceased to marvel at Flanders’s temperate seasons, especially compared with the tempestuousness of Castile) and our palace nestled like a filigree ornament amid informal gardens where spring scattered the hedges with wildflowers and tulips clustered about fountains.

  Seated on a chair under a canopy, I watched my sister-in-law, Margaret, pace the gravel paths with my baby, Charles, in her arms, Eleanor teetering behind with Madame de Halewin. My two-year-old daughter was growing into a sturdy child, her Aragonese blood evident in her olive-tinted complexion and the green-amber eyes that were so like mine. In contrast, my Charles was pure Habsburg, his preternaturally solemn gaze enhanced by skin so white he could not be taken outdoors without his oversize bonnet.

  Margaret called to me: “Chérie! This boy is an angel, so patient and quiet.”

  I smiled in response, fingering the gold filigree brooch Philip had given me in honor of Charles’s birth, an exquisite depiction of the castles and shields of Castile lined in rubies. I was pleased to have Margaret home, if only for a short while. She had arrived from Savoy declaring she might perish of boredom in her new husband’s court, where she literally had nothing to do all day than accumulate a new and ostentatious wardrobe. Today she wore a pink gown slung with so many baubles she clanked like a bishop as she handed Charles to his nursemaid and dropped onto a stool beside me, her elongated features aglow with health.

  “Must you go back?” I said. “I want to keep you here with us, selfish that I am. You’re so good with the children, and we need every extra pair of hands we can get.”

  She laughed. “You’ve an entire palace of servants to serve you, my dear!” She patted my hand. “I wish I could stay. My husband is a frightful old goat, but he’s quite fond of me and rather rich, so what else can I do? I did tell my father this is absolutely the last marriage I’ll consent to for the sake of his empire.” She let out a sigh. “But I’ll miss the little ones so. Children can bring such joy to one’s life.”

  “You’ll make a wonderful mother someday. Perhaps you and the duke…?”

  Her bray startled my ladies seated nearby. “Ma chérie, how charming of you! Alas, my poor duke has barely enough strength to mount his close stool, much less me.”

  We giggled. Then Margaret said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so happy.” She went silent for a moment. “Is everything well, then?”

  “It is,” I said softly.

  She nodded. “Good. That is how it should be.” She turned her gaze to the garden, where Eleanor was yanking Madame de Halewin toward the fountain. Margaret leapt up. “You naughty child! Stop dragging poor Madame about like a mule!” She marched off to rescue the governess, scooping Eleanor up in her arms.

  Madame staggered back to the ladies. “The child has the energy of three,” she panted.

  Doña Ana remarked dryly, “You should sit, madame, before you drop dead of apoplexy.”

  I resisted a chuckle. With the birth of my children, my duenna and the governess had found a modicum of mutual accord, for even Doña Ana had had to agree that Madame’s years of experience made her the perfect instructor for Eleanor.

  I raised a hand to my brow, shielding the sun. It promised to be an unseasonably warm afternoon and I looked forward to a nap in the coolness of my rooms before the evening banquet. Then I caught sight of a page running toward me, dressed in our livery of black and yellow.

  He came to a breathless halt and bowed low. Sweat dripped from the curls under his cap. “His Highness asks that Your Highness join him. An urgent missive has arrived from Spain.”

  His words flung a pall over the sun. I rose, ignoring Doña Ana’s stare as I called to Margaret, “Philip is asking for me. Will you see to the children?”

  TENSION LAY THICK IN the chamber. My stomach knotted when I saw Besançon seated at Philip’s desk, a boulder in his satin and silly tonsure cap, his unblinking toadlike stare fixed on me as I entered the room. Philip turned from where he stood by the window, his face in shadow. He started to move to me when the archbishop burst out without warning: “We’ve received momentous news. The infante Miguel is dead. Your Highness is the new heiress of Castile.”

  I felt myself gasp but did not hear my own voice, searching Philip’s expression for the confirmation I did not want to hear. He said, “I am sorry, my love. Your mother has sent word, requesting we go to Spain as soon as possible.”

  I found it hard to draw a full breath. “How?” I whispered. “How did my sister’s son die?”

  “His lungs failed him, poor soul.” Besançon genuflected cursorily before lifting a sheaf of documents from the desk. “Now then, the
se papers must be signed and—”

  Sudden fury surged in me. “My family has suffered a terrible loss. I’ll sign no papers today.”

  He paused. One thin, fair brow arched. “Your Highness, I fear this matter cannot wait.”

  “Well, it must!” I rounded on him, releasing in my distraught state the venom I’d nursed toward him. “You astound me, my lord. Have you no inclination to the holy office you purport to serve? You speak of the death of an infante of Spain!”

  I felt Philip’s hand on my shoulder, though I had not seen him move to me. “My lord,” he murmured. “Let it be.”

  “But Your Highness, the document…It must—”

  “I said let it be. I will speak with her. Now go.”

  His jowls quivering, Besançon swept out, his robes hissing on the floor like an angry tail.

  Philip put a goblet in my hand. “Drink, my love. You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

  The warm claret hit my stomach like lead. A terrible queasiness overcame me. It must be the heat, I thought faintly, the heat and shock of the news.

  I set the goblet aside with a shaking hand. “What are we going to do?” I said, and I realized I spoke as if of a catastrophe, an earthquake, or terrible fire that had upended my entire world.

  I was Spain’s heir. When my parents died, I would be queen. Tragedy had cut a swath through my family and brought me to this unexpected, frightening place. What I had never imagined possible had come to pass. Spain now waited for me.

  As if from a vast distance I heard Philip say, “We must prepare, of course. But first, we’ll send Besançon to meet with your parents in person.”

  I pulled myself to attention. “No. Not him.”

  Philip’s mouth tightened. “Why not? He is my chancellor.”

  “Because I…I do not trust him.”

  “Juana, this is no time for grievances. He is an expert in these matters: he knows best how to handle such scenarios.” He held up a hand. “And don’t tell me he mishandled that affair with your matrons. We need an experienced adviser, and I trust him with my life. We are the heirs of Castile and Aragón. We must present ourselves appropriately.”

  I marked the subtle change in him, his chest puffed out and chin erect, as if he already wore the crown of prince consort. That title Besançon had sought for him from my parents was now his, and he seemed as comfortable with it as I was not. I thought it was normal for him; he was used to being a sole heir and the center of attention, but I could scarcely believe it was happening. How could my life have turned so momentous so quickly?

  The air in the room felt heavy. “I’d still prefer we send another,” I said. “Or perhaps we could just go ourselves. My mother did ask for us, not Besançon.”

  I heard his foot tap on the floor. “Juana,” he said, with a hint of impatience, “you’re not thinking clearly. Such a trip can’t be planned overnight. We could be gone months; we have our children to consider, my councillors, and the Estates-General to address. No, best to let Besançon pave our way; he can convey our condolences and sign any official documents, then consult with your mother and her council. He is, after all, Cisneros of Toledo’s equal.”

  He was right, of course. We couldn’t simply leave. We had a newborn son, a daughter, our households, our entire court. I started to give my reluctant consent when I realized my teeth were chattering. I felt a chill seep into my very bones. I swayed on my chair; as he moved quickly to catch me I whispered, “My women…call for my women.”

  Then blackness overcame me.

  I AWOKE HOURS LATER IN MY BED, MY ENTIRE BODY ACHING AS though I’d taken a fall from a horse. At my bedside, Doña Ana wrung out and replaced the marigold-soaked cloth on my brow. Beatriz and Soraya looked on anxiously.

  “Am I sick?” I asked. The mere act of speaking made me want to retch. I’d contracted some plague, I thought. The curse that claimed my brother and sister was about to claim me.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” replied Doña Ana. “You’re with child again.”

  I stared at her. “That’s not possible. I…I’ve never felt this ill before.”

  “Nevertheless, you are with child.” She sniffed. “You have all the signs. It’s hardly surprising, not when a woman will indulge herself as much as you do.”

  I sank into my pillows. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Doña Ana stood. “You’d best rest now while you can. When a babe acts up this early, the rest of the term is bound to be difficult.”

  “That isn’t what I need to hear,” I groused. I turned away, yanking my covers over my head.

  Within moments I succumbed to sleep.

  TWELVE

  Just as Doña Ana predicted, my third pregnancy proved to be my worst. Never had I felt so wretched or exhausted. I did not bestir myself to witness Besançon’s pontifical departure for Spain, his saddlebags stuffed with documents and his retinue large enough to fill a hamlet. I did not greet the envoys who came from all over Europe to seek favor with the new heirs of Spain. I took refuge in my rooms, knowing as soon as I delivered my child, all of that, and more, would be waiting for me.

  On June 15, 1501, after seven agonizing hours of labor that proved a fitting end to her gestation, I gave birth to another daughter. I barely looked up from my sweat-drenched pillows as the midwives cleansed and swaddled her. I feared I might hate her after the misery she’d put me through. But when she was set in my arms and I took one look at her limpid blue eyes, everything melted away. With the golden fuzz on her still-soft and misshapen head—sure sign that like my mother in her youth, she would have hair rich as a Castilian wheat field—she was the child I had awaited, without ever knowing it.

  “Isabella,” I announced. “I shall call her Isabella, in honor of my mother and sister.”

  I shook my head when Doña Ana came to take her from me to deliver to the robust peasant woman chosen as a nursemaid. Instead, to my duenna’s gasp, I unlaced my shift. The greedy nub of Isabella’s mouth on my aching nipple sent pleasure rippling through me. I closed my eyes, ignoring Doña Ana’s remark that such a thing had never been seen, a woman of the blood royal giving teat like a cow in a field.

  Philip came to visit me while I recovered and recounted with a laugh that I was the scandal of the court, word having gotten out that I nursed my own infant. He held Isabella and complimented me on her perfection, and then he told me he had received a communiqué from Besançon, saying all was going as planned in Spain.

  With the child out of my womb and my malaise subsided, the news made me sit upright. “What does he mean, ‘as planned’?”

  “Nothing for you to fret about,” he said, and he kissed me. “Now rest. You need your strength. We have a trip to Spain to plan, remember?”

  Three weeks after the birth, I still had not relinquished Isabella to Madame de Halewin and the battalion of servants waiting to earn their keep. I ordered a crib set up near my own bed, and kept her there at my side day and night.

  Philip went to meet with his Estates-General, leaving me in a palace full of women and old men. Times past, I would have missed him. Not now. I had recovered my strength and my wits, and I had my own business to take care of. I sat at my desk and wrote a long missive to my mother, telling her of Isabella’s birth and asking for news. I included a substantial donation for masses to be said for my late sister and her dead babe and assured my mother I was preparing to come as soon as arrangements were made.

  I then had my apartments cleaned, my plate polished, all my gowns aired. I saw to Eleanor’s first lessons and the weaning of Charles from his nursemaid; above all else, I attended to my Isabella. Never had I felt so protective. It was almost as though I sought to shield my child from some unseen threat, though I could not name what I feared.

  We were playing together in my rooms, I dangling a gilded rattle with a tiny bell over her as she cooed and pedaled her tiny feet, when Beatriz brought me the letter.

  “This just arrived with the courier from Brussels
.” She gave me a searching look before she swept a delighted Isabella up, taking her into the bedchamber while I went to my desk, letter in hand. Cracking the seal, I unfolded the wide, rough parchment. I recognized its grain at once; my mother’s stationery lacked the silky hue of my own letter stock.

  For a moment, all of my childhood trepidations came flooding back, as if the great Isabel might stride into my chamber at any moment to test my readiness to assume her throne. I had never been her favorite: I had never been her chosen successor. But as I held the letter closer to my face, I discerned the faint scent of candle smoke and a touch of lavender, and it brought sudden tears to my eyes. I looked at my mother’s handwriting slanted across the page:

  My dearest hija,

  I trust this letter reaches you in good health. I have prayed for you every day, so that you will find succor in what is surely a woman’s most exacting hour. But I knew God would see you safely delivered of your child, for you are strong of body as I once was. Never did the childbed test me as it did others. Your news that you have safely delivered a daughter christened in my honor also brings a welcome balm to my heart, for I have just sent your sister Catalina to her marriage in England, and I miss her company dearly, as she was my last child and of great comfort to me in this time of dolor.

  I write to you now because I am like Jonah in the whale, fighting the insurmountable. The lord archbishop Besançon has just left us, unsatisfied, I fear. His demands for your husband’s recognition as infante did not go over well with our Cortes or us. He does not seem to understand that we cannot invest Philip with the title nor grant him investiture as prince consort of these realms before we have invested you, for the succession devolves on you as our primary heir. These are perilous times, and I must therefore beg you not to delay further but rather come to us as soon as you can, with your husband and your children, if at all possible. In anticipation, I am sending my own secretary, Señor Lopez de Conchillos, to you, in whom I’ve entrusted my advice.