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

by Gortner, C. W.

  In those hours of solitude, I relived my past. I saw again that innocent girl entranced by the bats and recalled how my mother had seemed a near-divine being, so aloof I could never offer her something as fallible as love. I traveled again to Flanders, France, and back to Spain. I stood on the docks of Laredo and felt the reconciliation of a final farewell. I did not shed a single tear.

  Beatriz now stepped to me. “Princesa, they bring news of His Majesty your father.”

  Papá.

  I turned to her. “Is it my father’s embassy?”

  She nodded. “His Highness met with them before he departed for a meeting with his Estates. One of them was granted permission to see you. The others returned to Spain.” She paused. “It is Lopez. Will you receive him?”

  Lopez: my mother’s secretary, whom I’d last seen at La Mota. Why was he here?

  I rose on stiff legs. As I passed my mirror, I avoided the shiver in the glass. I went out into my main chamber and sat on my upholstered chair. I pulled my veil over my face. The curtains at the windows were drawn, filling the room with shadows.

  Lopez entered, accompanied by Don Manuel. My chest tightened when I saw how old my mother’s devoted secretary had grown, his spine bowed as if by some inner grief. Recalling my harsh words to him in Spain, I gave a tentative nod. I did not want my past behavior to ruin our dealings now, not in front of Don Manuel.

  “My lord,” I said to Lopez, “a terrible hour brings you here, but I am glad of you.”

  He inclined his head. “Your Majesty,” he said and a jolt went through me. “Your Majesty, I offer you my sincere condolences.”

  I swallowed, glanced at Don Manuel. He stared at me, a smug smile lurking just behind his thick lips. This creature of my husband’s was enjoying the farce.

  “Please,” I said softly, “you mustn’t address me thus. I am still your princess, as I’ve not yet been sworn in by the Cortes and thus cannot receive the reverence given to my late mother.”

  This, I noted in satisfaction, wiped the smile off that gloating toad’s face.

  “Forgive me,” Lopez said. “I’ve no desire to further distress you, princesa.”

  I experienced a sense of abrupt peril. “You do not. As difficult as my mother’s loss is, I’ve every intention of fulfilling my duties. I understand you bring word of my father?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lopez reached into his doublet and withdrew a small velvet box. At that instant, I remembered my mother had entrusted Lopez with her codicil. This must be why my father had sent him. Papá knew he would not betray me.

  Lopez knelt at my feet and lifted the box. “Your Highness, the Cortes of Toledo and His Majesty King Fernando order me to present you with the official signet ring of Castile. They ask that you make haste to Spain so you can be invested and crowned as sovereign queen.”

  His declaration rang out with hollow impact. I took the box from him, opened it to find the chipped ruby ring that I had last seen on my mother’s hand. My throat closed. I could not move for what seemed an eternity, staring at that dull stone with its faded insignia of a castle and crown: the symbols of Castile, which had not left my mother’s hand since the day of her coronation. Slowly I removed it from the box and slipped it onto my right index finger, with it was said the vein ran straight to the heart.

  I lifted my eyes to Don Manuel. He had not moved from his stance a short distance away from us, as if he sought to afford me a semblance of respectful privacy. His face was shuttered, unreadable. I had my mother’s ring. My father had summoned me. What would he do now? What would he tell Philip to do?

  I returned to Lopez. His tired brown eyes remained fixed on me. There was something else he needed to say, something he dared not speak aloud.

  “I do not wish to tire you,” he added. “I came only to present Your Highness with the ring and to say that if you have any needs I might serve, I am entirely at your disposal.”

  The slight emphasis he placed on the word needs went unnoticed by Don Manuel, it seemed. The ambassador had looked down and was now regarding his cuticles in obvious boredom. It relieved me to note that in his arrogant urbanity he clearly didn’t think this elderly secretary and his archaic ceremony posed any real threat.

  I said carefully, “I would like to dictate some letters to my mother’s servants, seeing as they served her for years and share in my grief.”

  “It would be my honor,” Lopez replied. He turned to Don Manuel. “Her Highness has need of my secretarial services, señor. Does that meet with your approval?”

  I saw Don Manuel hesitate, his eyes shifting from Lopez to me. He could hardly tell my expression under my veil but I hoped what he did see was a pathetic sight: a woman who had only recently been locked in her rooms without anyone of import to succor her. Treacherous turncoat that he was, he was also a Spaniard. He had to feign some modicum of respect for me, at least in the secretary’s presence. After all, I was, on paper at least, his queen.

  I took advantage of his momentary indecision to motion to Beatriz, who stood waiting in a corner. “My lady can serve you refreshments in the antechamber if you care to wait, señor. I’m afraid these letters could take some time.”

  Don Manuel stared hard at me. Then, with a glare, he gave a curt bow and retreated into the antechamber. As soon as Beatriz closed the door on him, I said to Lopez, “The ambassador cannot be trusted. He is entirely my husband’s creature.”

  He looked over his shoulder and moved close to me. “I am aware of it. He’s been plotting without cease since your mother’s death to raise your husband above you.”

  I stared at him. “Above me?”

  “Yes. His Highness is calling himself the new king of Castile and heir apparent to Aragón.”

  My stomach clenched. “I see. And what does my father have to say about it?”

  “His Majesty is very perturbed. He’s doing his utmost to protect your throne.”

  “But my mother made him governor of Castile. Whatever my husband may choose to call himself, without my and the Cortes’ approval surely Philip is nothing in Spain.”

  “Alas, not all is as it should be.” He paused, eyeing me. I could see he had not forgotten my fury at La Mota. “Your Highness, I must ask that you remain calm. My news…it is disturbing.”

  My hands knotted in my lap. “Go on.”

  In a low voice he told me of the days following my departure from Spain, in which my mother had returned to Madrigal with my son. She feared for my safety, Lopez said, and her anxiety aggravated her condition. As she made her painstaking preparations for death, stipulating that her corpse be entombed in the cathedral in Granada, site of her greatest triumph, she received a letter from Philip and Don Manuel relating everything that had transpired since my return to Flanders, including my attack on my husband’s whore and imprisonment in my rooms.

  “They claimed Your Highness was very ill and had gone so far beyond reason it was doubtful whether you’d ever be fit enough to rule. They asked Her Majesty to alter the succession in favor of Charles, in whose stead His Highness could govern until your son comes of age. As you can imagine, their letter greatly aggrieved Her Majesty.”

  I had suspected this. From the moment I met him, I had sensed corruption in Don Manuel. With his expert knowledge of court intrigue, coupled with a lifelong courtier’s ambitions, he had divined the weakness in my husband’s character and stepped neatly into a dead man’s shoes. Still, that he had so callously and maliciously contrived to disturb my mother’s final days made my blood run cold with rage.

  “Did…did she believe them?” I heard myself ask.

  “No. But she wasn’t the only one to receive their letter. Don Manuel had copies sent to the Cortes and select high members of the nobility, including the Marquis of Villena, who hardly needs an excuse to commit treachery. He demanded audience with Her Majesty to discuss an alternate succession but Her Majesty refused him. By then, she was near death.”

  He paused. When I did not speak, he went on
.

  “After Her Majesty’s death, His Majesty had to assume her burden. He deliberated long before choosing a course. Villena continued to demand an audience, but His Majesty, like Her Majesty before him, knew well who had advised your husband to this act. King Fernando bears the ambassador no love. Don Manuel has never been exemplary: indeed, he was instrumental years ago in thwarting Aragón’s request of help from the emperor against the French and has a reputation for venality. But at length His Majesty came to the conclusion that he must allow the grandes to vent their concerns. Never for an instant did he believe they had any grounds, but the matter begged a solution and he could think of no other.”

  I remained absolutely silent for a long moment. Then I said quietly, “Are you telling me the Cortes and high nobles of Castile believe…I am insane?” As I spoke, I thought of the admiral. Had he heard these lies? The thought made a hollow of my chest.

  “I fear so,” Lopez told me. “You must understand that King Fernando had no other option. The situation in Spain verges on catastrophic. Don Manuel has sent his sycophants throughout Castile to bribe the nobles, many of whom are defecting to your husband’s cause because he promises to restore the lands and privileges they were deprived of years ago by their Majesties. Some of these same grandes have gone even further and sent a petition to the Cortes asking that your father be ordered to abandon all further rights in Castile.”

  I clenched my hands about my chair arms, as if to anchor myself in place. “It was my mother’s will that my father govern in my place until I claim my throne. He is her husband!”

  “It stands to reason that if Your Highness is unfit to rule, then Her Majesty’s appointments are also under question. And in truth, His Majesty has no legal rights to the position he held as Her Majesty’s consort. With her death, he is but king of Aragón.”

  I struggled to remain seated. My mother’s words returned to me, haunting in their assessment of the man who had become my enemy: His lack of status festers in him like a wound. What I did with Fernando, what he accepted of me, Philip may not take so easily from you.

  “They want to destroy my father,” I said aloud. “Don Manuel and Philip will use the noblity’s hatred of Papá against him to win the throne.”

  “Yes,” said Lopez, “but there’s something neither His Highness nor Don Manuel anticipates—Her Majesty’s codicil. God rest her soul, she feared something like this might occur and she prepared a codicil she appended to her will. In it, she states that until the Cortes invest you as queen the archduke Philip has no claim to any title or revenue in Spain. Should Your Highness decide for whatever reason that you do not wish to rule, it is your father, King Fernando, not the archduke your husband, who will assume the throne as regent until Charles comes of age. His Majesty could use this codicil, should the need arise.”

  My heart thundered in my ears. She had done it. My mother had guarded my path to the throne. She would not see her own flesh and blood or the inviolate lineage of her succession cast aside. I had something with which to fight: something to fight for.

  “And Papá can present her codicil to the Cortes,” I asked, “before Philip…?” All of a sudden my composure deserted me. I couldn’t find the breath to voice the dreaded words aloud.

  Lopez nodded. “He can. For now, he has merely persuaded the Cortes that you may suffer a temporary ailment brought on by grief at Her Majesty’s loss. It in turn has agreed to uphold his regency until your true state can be ascertained. That is why I am here. Officially, I bring your summons but I am also under orders to convey you to Spain as soon as possible.”

  I went still. As if he read the trepidation on my face, he said softly, “The past is past, princesa. Her Majesty believed you capable of being queen. I would never presume to question her wisdom. But your husband is another matter. In him, I fear you have made a mortal enemy.”

  I said in a whisper, “I know.”

  He glanced over his shoulder again. “Her Majesty ensured your husband could never legally usurp your throne. Only through your voluntary abdication can the succession devolve to your sons. But we still face tremendous obstacles, foremost of which is getting you to Spain. I must leave now, before Don Manuel becomes suspicious. But I’ll return tomorrow, with your leave, to discuss our plan. For have no fear, I have a plan.”

  It was as if we’d never been at odds. A devoted servant to his last breath, Lopez would defend me even if I were truly insane, for thus had Isabel of Castile ordained. Even from her tomb, my mother continued to wield her power.

  I came to my feet. “My lord, you have my leave. Indeed, I am in your debt.”

  He bowed. “Princesa, the debt is all mine, for you allow me to serve.”

  As soon as he left, Beatriz came in. “Don Manuel left. He muttered something about an old secretary and a madwoman not being able to do any harm. How I loathe that man!” She went still. “My lady, what is it? You’re white as a ghost.”

  I turned to her. “He will not have Castile,” I said. “Never, while I live.”

  I had never meant anything as much as I did those words.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Lopez came the next day as promised. I hadn’t slept thinking Don Manuel might detain him but it seemed the ambassador had decided Lopez and I were as impotent as he hoped.

  Beatriz dressed my hair and applied discreet cosmetics to conceal the shadows under my eyes and add color to my cheeks. Instead of mourning, I donned a sedate blue velvet gown—a wise choice, I noted, as Lopez’s face brightened the moment I entered the room.

  “Beatriz, stand outside the door,” I ordered, and I turned to him. “I’m prepared to do whatever is necessary. Given the circumstances, I think it best if I confirm my father’s regency until I can reach Spain.”

  “I couldn’t suggest a wiser course.” He drew me to the desk, his voice low. “We must be careful. Don Manuel suspects something. He questioned me for over an hour about the true significance of your having Her Majesty’s ring and how long I planned on staying. I told him the ring was symbolic and that I would see you today to say my farewell. We must make haste.”

  Taking quill and ink and a fresh sheet of parchment, we composed my official reply to the Cortes’ summons, reaffirming my commitment to my throne and bestowing upon my father the power to maintain his role of governor until I could arrive, by arms if necessary. Under no circumstance is Philip of Flanders to style himself as anything other than prince consort, he wrote, nor is any grande or other high prelate or official in service to the Crown to grant him any such privileges without Her Majesty’s official consent, on pain of her worst displeasure.

  Then I signed the letter: I, Juana the Queen.

  “Once King Fernando presents this to the Cortes,” Lopez said, “it’ll drive a stake in Don Manuel and your husband’s bribery and claims that you are insane. They’ll have no other choice but to bring you to Spain. And once you’re there, we’ll do whatever is required to defend you.”

  I looked down at the paper. He was waiting to sand it to dry the excess ink.

  “Whatever is required,” I said. A shiver went through me. “Do you think it’ll come to that?”

  “I pray not,” he said. “Nevertheless, Your Highness must prepare. It seems to me His Highness your husband is as determined to take what you are determined not to give.”

  “Yes,” I said. I motioned. The sand was dusted, blown off; the wax cone melted over a candle flame and dripped onto the folded edge.

  Lopez said, “The seal, Your Highness. Only the seal can make it official.”

  I started. Then I pressed my signet ring into the wax. It took on the faint imprint; as it hardened, I realized it was my first official act as my mother’s successor.

  And a declaration of war against my husband.

  Lopez concealed the document in his satchel containing my letters of condolence. I’d written to the Marquise de Moya and other members of my mother’s entourage in the hope such a pile of sealed letters would dissuad
e all but the most assiduous of spying eyes.

  Lopez bowed over my hand. He may have looked old and frail when he first came to me, but I now saw the spry intelligence that had made him one of my mother’s most trusted confidants. “I will go straight to Antwerp,” he said, “and book passage on the first ship for Spain. By next month at the latest, I’ll have delivered your letter to your father. He will take it before the Cortes, who will see by your own hand and my testimony that these rumors concerning your inability to rule are unfounded. You will be summoned to Castile. And there, you will triumph.”

  “Godspeed,” I whispered. I reached over and embraced him. “I will wait for you.”

  I SAT WITH MY WOMEN, MADAME DE HALEWIN, AND MY DAUGHTERS, Eleanor and Isabella.

  My nerves were worn paper thin, my nights a purgatory as I paced my room. I despised the endless hours, the pretense and feigned submission. I knew I must behave as though I were reconciled to my lot, that nothing could alert Don Manuel of my plans. It must take him by surprise; he and Philip must find themselves with no other solution than to take me home. I forced myself not to contemplate more than that. I did not delude myself that the road ahead would be easy, but at least I would be in Spain, where my father and those nobles who still revered my mother could support me.

  Still, I lived in daily fear that I would soon be unable to conceal my pregnancy. I’d told only Beatriz, knowing that if it was discovered it could be used as a reason for delay. I had to depart for Spain before I began to show. And I must leave my other children behind.

  The very thought horrified me. I didn’t know when I might see them again, but after hours of whispered debate in my rooms with Beatriz I came to the conclusion that I could not subject them to whatever strife awaited me in Spain. Lopez had hinted it might come to war between Philip and me. I knew from firsthand experience the toll war could have on a child’s life and I would not have my children suffer it. I reluctantly wrote to my sister-in-law, Margaret, requesting she welcome Charles and the girls for a spring visit. Margaret was overjoyed in her reply, asking if I would accompany them. Though she must have known of Philip’s and my situation, she chose to turn a blind eye and I returned word that I would, as soon as I settled my affairs. Even if Margaret would never openly defy her brother, I knew that at least with her my children would be safe. She would not let them become embroiled in our battles.