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

by Gortner, C. W.

  His smile turned cruel. “So, go now. Go tell her what an ungrateful knave I am. Only also tell her to watch herself. Tell her if she tries my patience, I’ll leave this accursed land so quickly it will make her royal head spin. And I’ll leave you with it.”

  He strode past me, banging open the door.

  Burying my face in my hands, I began to weep.

  SIXTEEN

  We returned to Toledo, where my mother instituted nine days of official mourning for Prince Arthur. Funeral masses were held morning, noon, and night. We were obliged to attend each one, to show our sorrow over a black bier bearing a waxen effigy of the Tudor prince we’d never met. I did grieve, not for him, but for my sister Catalina, so far from home and all alone, a widow at seventeen years of age. I also grieved for myself, for the shattering of my hopes for this return to Spain, now turned into a cauldron of intrigue and resentment. A veil of regal pretense might drape our public lives but in private everything began to unravel, and I feared more than ever what the future might bring.

  Besançon was at Philip’s side constantly, whispering further defiance in his ear, and as a result war ensued with my parent and their councillors, without a single concession to relieve the tension we lived under—as my mother never ceased to remind me.

  “I know your husband cares nothing for Spain,” she said. “But he’s not so much of a fool as he would have us believe. I’ve watched him and Besançon at our council sessions. I’ve seen how their eyes glitter whenever we discuss the New World and our many estates and patrimonies.” She gave a grim smile. “Land is power. All Louis of France has offered them are empty promises and a princess who might not survive her infancy, while we offer an established realm. Perhaps this explains why the archbishop was at me only this morning, making noises that either I settle the succession once and for all or he’ll recommend an immediate return to Flanders.”

  As always, the mention of Besançon made my anger run thick, lending me the fortitude I’d felt slipping of late. “Let Besançon threaten whatever he likes,” I said. “Neither Philip nor I will leave until this matter is resolved.”

  “It soon will be.” My mother sighed. “I’m afraid I must do as they ask and convene my Cortes. For better or worse, I will settle my succession on you as my heir and Philip as your prince consort—but only as prince consort, nothing more. Your father will do the same in Aragón, though he’ll require more time.” She grimaced. “The Aragonese will be harder to convince. Yet now that we’ve conceded, perhaps it’ll put an end to this insufferable alliance with France.”

  Thus it came to pass that on May 22, 1502, Philip and I knelt before the court, grandes, and clergy to be invested as heirs. Recently returned from his persecution of the moriscos in Sevilla, gaunt Cisneros of Toledo presided over the ceremony; when the time came for each of us to kiss his hand, Cisneros withdrew his fingers just as Philip leaned to it. My stomach sank; Philip reared a furious expression. Cisneros regarded him with implacable black eyes, conveying Spain’s contempt as nothing else could.

  OUR INVESTMENT SEEMED TO EASE MATTERS SOMEWHAT. NEITHER Philip nor Besançon had questioned the title of prince consort and we now waited for my father to pave the way with his Cortes in Aragón, with plans to travel to his capital city of Zaragoza in the fall, after the intense heat faded. For now, we sought refuge from one of the most brutal summers I could recall, a virtual inferno that charred leaves on the trees, baked the soil until it cracked, and shriveled the rivers in their beds.

  After several members of the Flemish suite succumbed to an ailment brought on by ingesting contaminated water, my mother began making plans to move us back to the cooler and healthier environs of Aranjuez. Then news of another unexpected death came in a packet of letters from Flanders. Among Madame de Halewin’s accounts of my children’s welfare was the sad news that at sixty-seven years of age my duenna Doña Ana had succumbed to her nemesis, the tertian fever. Madame related that Eleanor had taken Doña Ana’s passing particularly hard and Margaret had come to fetch her and bring her to her court at Savoy for a time.

  My duenna’s loss hit me with unexpected force. I was disconsolate for a time, for she had been part of my life for as long as I could remember, at my side through my childhood rebelliousness, my youthful battles for independence and struggle to adapt to life in a foreign land. My ladies and I pitched in together to send money for masses to be said for her soul, but I was soon distracted from my grief when I got word that the water sickness was spreading through Toledo. Within days the populace fled to the country. My mother commanded our immediate departure and sent word to Ocaña, where Philip had gone on a hawking trip.

  In the midst of my packing a page raced into my chambers. “Your Highness, you must come at once! My lord archbishop Besançon is gravely ill!”

  I paused. Besançon was notorious for his penchant for too many black olives, manchego cheese, and our famous black-foot ham: he’d suffered more colic than a babe since our arrival in Spain. I was not about to go rushing to his bedside to attend him.

  The page added, “He’s at the Marquis of Villena’s townhouse. Her Majesty’s own physician has been called for. They say he might have the water fever.”

  I went cold. “Beatriz, come,” and we hurried through sun-bloodied streets to Villena’s casa.

  The marquis met me in the hall. He looked dressed for court in his crimson doublet, his hair freshly pomaded. As he spoke, I thought I saw a smile lingering on his thin lips in their immaculate goatee. “His bowels run black with bile. Your Highness must not go near him. Dr. de Soto attends him and word has been sent to His Highness. You can wait in the hall, if you wish.”

  He led me to the hall as though he escorted me to supper. I knew he did not care if Besançon lived or died, and I sat with Beatriz in mounting apprehension, while his servants brought us refreshments. How had Besançon fallen ill? He had been staying here with Villena for several days. The marquis seemed fine enough, so his water supplies couldn’t be contaminated. Had Besançon eaten something fouled by the disease?

  These thoughts ran through my head like rats in an attic and by the time Philip arrived at dusk, I was in a state of nervous tension. I hurried out to speak with him, but he shook me aside, bounding up the stairs to Besançon’s chambers, forcing me to follow.

  The room was fetid, dank with heat and the stench of disease. Philip snarled at the perspiration-drenched royal physician leaning over Besançon’s supine form. “Get out, Jew!”

  Soto slipped away. I started to reach out to Philip, to keep him from the bed; he glared at me, then he stepped forth on unsteady steps. “Mon père,” I heard him whisper. “It’s me. I am here. Your faithful son is here.”

  Besançon moaned, his hand fumbling blindly for Philip’s. “Listen,” he said in a trembling voice that made me shift toward them. “Plot…There is…plot.” I could see the archbishop struggling for breath. “The king…You…must…go…Poison…I…die poisoned.”

  A stab of fury went through me. “Liar!”

  With a strangled sound, Philip started to whirl on me. Besançon choked, arched in a contorted spasm, his eyes rolling back. A horrifying rumble in his guts preceded an eruption of foul excrement that drenched the sheets. Philip leapt back. With a hand at my mouth, gagging at the stench, I staggered to the door, calling out in a suffocated voice for Dr. de Soto.

  “No! Not that monster!” Philip shouted, and he lunged at me. I had already opened the door.

  Standing on the threshold was my father.

  “HE IS DEAD.” PAPÁ STOOD IN THE HALL ENTRANCE. HOURS HAD passed. Philip sat slumped by the hearth, an untouched goblet in his hand. I sat opposite him, Beatriz at my side.

  “His servants will see to the preparation of his corpse,” my father went on. “The water sickness is not contagious between people. You must drink from an infected source to get it.” He paused, meeting my apprehensive gaze before returning to Philip. “In light of the accusation he made before his death, I suggest
that Dr. de Soto perform an autopsy.”

  Philip’s goblet clattered to the floor. He uncoiled from the stool, heedless to the wine spreading under his feet. “You tell that Christ killer to keep his filthy hands off him.” His face was haggard in the flickering firelight. “Leave us alone. I want…I want to say goodbye.”

  He walked from the hall. I looked again at my father. I tried to feel remorse for the archbishop, but all I could feel was astonishment at the swift turn of events and a secret relief that I no longer had to contend with him or his domineering influence over Philip. I did not want to explore my unwilling doubt, though his death had come at a convenient time, on the very heels of our pending investment in Aragón.

  My thoughts must have shown on my face. My father said quietly, “He was wild with fever and pain. The water sickness does that to a man. Go back to your mother now and proceed to Aranjuez. There is nothing you can do. I’ll stay here with your husband.”

  I didn’t have the heart to question him. As Beatriz and I went back through the streets with an escort of Villena’s men, I decided Besançon had been as treacherous on his deathbed as he’d ever been in life, sowing suspicion up to the very end.

  In my stripped apartments, where my coffers and chests awaited conveyance to Aranjuez, I fell fully dressed onto my bed and at once into a deep but troubled sleep. I awakened what was hours, but seemed only minutes, later to the sound of my bedchamber door clicking open.

  I clutched the crucifix at my throat, half-expecting to find Besançon’s reproachful shade at my bedside. I peered into the gloom past my bed curtains to see Philip standing there with his arms limp at his sides. I rose cautiously, thinking he must be in terrible pain, as much as I had been when I first learned of Doña Ana’s death.

  Then he said in a low icy voice, “Did you know they would do this to him?”

  I met his gaze. The blues of his eyes looked black, rimmed in red from weeping. I shook my head. “Philip, he was delirious. He did not know what he was saying.”

  “I should have known you’d say that. You’re just like them, cut from the same cloth. You always hated him. You’re probably glad he’s dead. But I know what I heard, and I tell you he was poisoned. And what’s more, I know why.”

  “Why?” I whispered, though there was nothing in the world I wanted less to hear. The room had begun to pitch under my feet. I couldn’t take any more of this, I thought faintly. It was too much discord, too much heat, too much of everything. I felt trapped inside a living hell, stepping backward like a cornered animal as he came at me.

  “Because he was my friend, and I trusted him above all others. They knew how much he meant to me and they killed him to hurt me! To hurt me and get him out of the way.”

  “They…?” I felt my mouth move, but I couldn’t hear my voice. A rumbling sound built inside my head, like the roar of black waters crashing against rocks.

  “Yes. They. Their Catholic Majesties of Spain! Your beloved parents! They killed my Besançon. And by God, madame”—he thrust his face at me—“I will have my revenge.”

  My lips parted in horrified protest. The darkness inside roared up to engulf me.

  With a groan, my knees gave way and I crumpled to the floor.

  I OPENED BLEARY EYES. SORAYA AND BEATRIZ STOOD AT MY BED. I ached all over. I tried to ask how long I’d been here and what ailed me, but nothing would come out. My mouth felt sewn shut.

  “Ssh. Don’t speak.” My mother reached into a basin, wet my parched lips with a liquid that tasted like sorrel. “You’ll recover soon. A slight fever and exhaustion, Soto says, nothing to worry about. You’ve been abed a few days.”

  My last hour of awareness flashed past me. My gasp ripped my raw throat. “Ph…Phi…?”

  “Your husband is fine.” My mother leaned close, her gaunt face gleaming. “Praise be, he’s agreed to renounce the French alliance. Your father has taken him to Zaragoza to convene the Aragonese Cortes. You will join them as soon as you’re recovered.”

  I felt her hand clasp mine. “There is more good news, hija mia. You are with child.”

  MY RECOVERY WAS NOT QUICK. THE REASON FOR MY FEVER REMAINED a mystery, though Dr. de Soto believed it was an anxiety provoked by my pregnancy. I rather thought it an anxiety provoked by the events of the past months, but I submitted in any event to his prescription of plenty of rest and moderate exercise. He opposed any travel; and much as I longed to escape the sweltering heat for the north, I couldn’t bear the thought of being jounced about in a litter, though we did make the move to Aranjuez. In addition, my mother had me sign an official document that conveyed my agreement to Aragón’s investment of me as heir. She sent it via courier to Zaragoza, assuring me I needn’t be there in person for what, in essence, was a formality.

  In Aranjuez, I finally recognized the apathy that grayed my days and wondered if this new child would cause me as much trouble as my little Isabella had. But my mother was so overjoyed I kept my reservations to myself. I would bear a child conceived on Spanish soil; I must show her only my gratitude and happiness.

  So I put on a brave face, attended night and day by my women and my mother, with whom I discovered an unexpected concord. Relieved for a time of the political exigencies that had besotted both of us since my arrival, we took enjoyment in writing letters together to my widowed sister, Catalina, in England and Maria in Portugal, in embroidering and walks in the gardens, and quiet suppers where we dismissed the servants and served each other instead.

  At midnight, after my mother retired, I would take to the ramparts, my hair blowing loose as I contemplated the vast grassland plain stretching north, a sliver of moon hanging in the mauve sky, crisscrossed by the pirouetting of bats, which had so entranced me as a child in Granada.

  There was no need for court dress, for witty conversation or scintillating airs. I reveled in the freedom of not needing to impress anyone, in the absence of Philip’s impatience with me and my country. Standing at the farthest edge of the battlement walkway, I gazed toward the Tagus Valley and let the dry night breeze pass over me like a stranger’s caress.

  For the first time since my return to Spain, I was at peace with myself.

  My belly started to swell with the new life inside me. Time passed as if it had no meaning, until one afternoon I awoke after a long nap to discover it was near the end of November and five full months had gone by since Philip and my father had left for Aragón.

  A biting, snow-flecked wind raked its nails on the palace. Winter had come early. From my solar overlooking the keep, I heard the clatter of hooves and went to the window to see a small group of men dismount. I searched their ranks. Each wore a dark oiled cloak and shapeless sodden cap. But as they moved to the south staircase I recognized my father at their head.

  I knew at once that Philip was not among them.

  I spun to Beatriz. “Fetch my cloak. My father is here. I would see him.”

  Beatriz draped the thick wool over my shoulders. “Should I send word to Her Majesty?”

  My mother had retired for the afternoon to rest. She would want to speak with my father, of course, but for a reason I couldn’t explain I did not want her to know of his arrival quite yet. I wanted to hear Papá’s news first, whatever it might be.

  I shook my head. “Let her rest. She’s been writing letters to every monarch in Europe and fighting with that horrid English ambassador over Catalina’s dowry. Papá will see her later.”

  I crossed the freezing keep to the staircase and climbed to the second level. I did not knock; I simply opened my father’s study door and walked in, as I had a thousand times as a child. A group of lords stood at the hearth, warming their hands. They all looked up. I recognized among them the burly constable, husband to my father’s bastard Joanna. He had a terrible scar that sliced down his face, sealing his right eye shut. He was an ugly man, reputed to have a taste for bloodshed. During the Reconquest, I’d heard he hung Moorish heads he had decapitated from his saddle. Now, he fixed his feroci
ous Cyclopian gaze on me before lowering his massive head.

  Then he stepped aside, revealing my father.

  My voice sounded strained to my ears. “Papá, welcome home.” I self-consciously pulled my cloak closer about me, feeling the men’s eyes on the bulge of my belly.

  My father motioned the men out. My heart pounded suddenly in my chest. Something was wrong. I could feel it. I looked at him. “Papá, where is Philip?”

  He indicated a chair. “Sit, madrecita. I’ve something to tell you.”

  I let my cloak fall open. “I prefer to stand. Just tell me.”

  “I don’t know how to begin. Your husband, he…he is gone.”

  I did not move. A vast hollow opened inside me. I saw his beautiful body lanced by thieves’ arrows on the road or crushed by a stallion in a freak accident.

  “Where…?” I whispered. “Where is his corpse?”

  My father’s brow knit. “Corpse? He’s not dead. He’s in France, or so I suppose. At least, that’s where he said he was going.”

  Not dead. Philip was not dead. Why, then, did I feel as though he was?

  “He went to France? But that’s not possible. He didn’t write to me. He never said a word.”

  My father made an irritated sound and paced to the hearth, retrieving his goblet from the mantel. “Yes, well, he wouldn’t have now, would he? Not after everything that has gone between us concerning that goddamn alliance.”

  “Mamá told me he had repudiated it. She said you were going to Aragón for his investiture.”

  “We were.” My father eyed me over the goblet rim. “But then that fool said he had to speak with Louis. Apparently, what he had to say couldn’t wait.”

  I frowned. I was starting to feel weak, as if the floor were shifting under my feet. I moved to a chair and sat. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would he need to speak with Louis?”