Lion Triumphant

by Philippa Carr

  “Pilar would not leave her.”

  “She did. She did this once. You see it was the day of the auto … a sacred duty to go.”

  I closed my eyes. Oh, God, I thought. Everyone was sent away … because it was the day of the auto-da-fé. It was a sacred duty to attend. Everyone was afraid of not attending … and even Pilar went. Had he planned it just so?

  “And what of her … the poor young creature?”

  “Well, she didn’t go, Mistress. None ’ud expect her to. She was to stay behind with her dolls.”

  “Someone was with her?”

  “Edmundo, the big man…” Jennet could not help the lilt in her voice, even when recounting such an event as this, at the mention of Edmundo, the big man. “He were there. Working in the garden. He could see to her if she was took bad. They say he could lift her when she was kicking and screaming as easy as though she were a rag doll.”

  “Someone else was in the house, surely?”

  “Two of the maids … silly little things.”

  “Where were they?”

  “They said they’d left her sleeping. It was hot … and she was taking her siesta. The next thing she was found at the bottom of the staircase.”

  “Who found her?”

  “The two maids. They went to her room and she weren’t there. Then they came down the stairs and there she was lying there. They said there was something strange about the way she lay there. And then they went and looked and they ran screaming to Edmundo. He saw what was wrong and left her just as she’d fallen. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘Poor mad soul. She’s gone.’”

  I had closed the shutters and was lying on my bed. I wanted to lie in the darkness, but even so that brilliant sun penetrated between the shutters and there was some light in the room.

  The door opened slowly and Felipe was standing by the bed, looking down at me.

  I said: “You should not be here.”

  “I had to see you.”

  “There are other places.”

  “To see you alone,” he said. “Now she is dead…”

  “So recently dead, so strangely dead,” I interrupted.

  “She fell and killed herself. It is a wonder she did not fall before.”

  “She fell when she was more or less alone in the house. Everyone but the two maids and Edmundo had gone to the auto-da-fé. Pilar had gone.”

  “It was their duty to go. It was rarely that she was left almost alone in the house.”

  “It needed only once.”

  “She is dead. You know what that means. I am free.”

  “It is not wise to say such things. The servants listen.”

  He smiled faintly. “Once I so cautioned you.”

  “It is of more importance now than then.”

  “You are right. We will wait, but the waiting will be easy because in the end I shall have my heart’s desire.”

  “You remember my Queen and her lover. He had a wife, Amy Robsart. She died. She fell down a staircase. Why, how like this! It could almost seem that one who had been impressed by that incident had decided to repeat it.”

  “Lord Robert Dudley murdered his wife with your Queen’s connivance.”

  “Did he? I think you are right. Some say it was suicide. Some an accident.”

  “But many knew the truth.”

  “The Queen dared not marry him.”

  “It was because she would not stomach a rival on the throne.”

  “That … and because to have married him would have been to connive at murder … and maybe run the risk of being suspect.”

  “That may be.”

  “Don Felipe,” I said, “you are in like case. Amy Robsart’s servants went to a Fair; yours went to an auto-da-fé. Then when the house is almost empty your wife dies.”

  “Many times she has been saved from inflicting harm on herself.”

  “And this time there was no one to save her. There will be people to talk. If you married now, Don Felipe, there might be some to say you had rid yourself of a wife to do so.”

  “I am the master here … Governor of these islands.”

  “My Queen was the mistress of England. She was wise.”

  He looked momentarily forlorn; then he lifted his head and I saw the stern pride of him, the determination to succeed. It was this which had made him undertake the intricate operation of bringing me to Tenerife. He was now equally determined to marry me, to proclaim Roberto his legitimate heir. He would stop at nothing.

  And I asked myself: Felipe, what part did you play in this? You were not here when Isabella died. But you did not come to England to bring me here. You are a man who sets himself a goal and employs others to carry it out. Have a care, Don Felipe.

  He held out a hand to me, but I did not take it.

  “Go now,” I said. “Take care. Let no one see in what direction your ambitions lie.”

  He left me then and I lay on in my darkened room.

  Isabella was buried with accompanying pomp.

  It was said that she had been possessed by devils as she had attempted to descend the stairs and as she had been seen to do so many times fell and so met her death.

  Death set a shadow over the household. Only in the nursery did it fail to penetrate and Honey and I spent a great deal of our time there. The weeks began to pass; we fell back into our routine.

  Often I would think about Isabella and wonder what had really happened. Had she suddenly missed Pilar? Had she gone to look for her? I thought of her often, standing at the top of that staircase and then suddenly falling to the bottom. I pictured her lying there. Poor little Isabella.

  How often had he said: “If it were not for Isabella”? But he had been away.

  Lord Robert Dudley had been away from Cumnor Place at the time of his wife’s death; but that did not exonerate him from murder.

  Men such as Sir Robert and Don Felipe did not do evil deeds themselves. They employed others to do them for them.

  Edmundo was at the Casa Azul; he was the strong man; he had picked up Isabella and carried her as though she were a rag doll. He was Felipe’s servant. Would he do anything his master asked … anything?

  So ran my tormented thoughts.

  Six months had passed and Felipe said to me: “It is time we married.”

  “It is too soon,” I said.

  “I cannot wait forever.”

  “Six months ago you had a wife.”

  “I have no wife now … nor did I ever have a wife.”

  “I know it to be unwise.”

  “I will protect you. Shortly we shall go to Spain. I must take you with me.”

  “We should wait awhile.”

  “I will wait no longer.”

  “I am undecided. I think often of my home. My mother will never forget me. She mourns me now.”

  “Tell me you will marry me and I will have a message sent to your mother. It is folly. It is dangerous. But this I will do to show you how much I care for you.”

  I looked at him and I felt a great tenderness surge over me. He held out his arms and I went toward him. I was held firmly against him. I could no longer resist love such as he was offering.

  Had I not learned most bitterly that one does not hold out for the perfection of one’s dreams? Honey knew it. She had taken Edward and enjoyed some happiness and now with Luis. And this man had proved to me that he regarded me with a tender devotion which amazed even himself. I could not reject that.

  He said: “My love, you shall write a letter to your mother. You will tell her that you are well and happy. John Gregory shall take it. We will arrange it. The next ship that leaves shall carry him. There is one stipulation: You must mention no names; you must not mention where you are. I must run no risks. But, my Catalina, this shall be done. You will see how I love you!”

  And so I promised to marry Don Felipe.

  We were married quietly in the little private chapel of the Hacienda. I was not unhappy; sometimes I laughed within myself, for I could not help reme
mbering the occasion of my humiliation when I had no alternative but to submit to him; I remembered how he had ordered that I should wear gowns made for Isabella, use scent which was hers, so that as he lay with me he should imagine I was the beautiful girl bride. There was no one but myself he wished to think of now. But Isabella was a shadow between us. More so for him than for me.

  How changed everything was. How he loved me, this strange quiet man! How strange that he, whose emotions were so rarely aroused, should feel this searing passion for one of an enemy race, a race he despised as barbarians; and here was one who was typical of that race—and yet he loved her.

  I never forget that he had allowed me to send a letter to my mother. I used to dream of her in the old Abbey garden and I held imaginary conversations with her. I believed I was never far from her thoughts.

  Perhaps by now, I would promise myself, she is receiving that letter. She is weeping over it; she would tuck it into her bodice and say: “My darling Cat’s hands have touched this!” And it would never leave her.

  So I must be grateful to Felipe.

  He loved me and he loved our son. To us alone did he show that part of his nature which was capable of loving. It had once occurred to me that when he loved it would be with a single-minded devotion. How right I had been! He now gave to love that intensity of passion which he had once given to revenge.

  He abandoned himself to moments of great happiness and at the very heart of that happiness was myself and our son.

  He loved to lie on our bed with me in his arms and talk of our future. I loved to hear him say our boy’s name. He said it differently when we were alone together. I felt an emotion welling up within me because such a cold stern man could love so much.

  “Catalina, Catalina, my love,” he would whisper to me.

  He was indeed happy and it is gratifying to realize one has brought such joy to another human being.

  His first task was to legitimize Roberto. Ships came now and then from Spain to Tenerife bringing men from the Escorial, where Felipe’s master lived in spartan state. Papers came from Madrid and he gleefully showed them to me.

  “Roberto is my firstborn,” he said. “It is now as though we had been married when he was born. There will be no barriers to his inheritance.”

  “And Carlos?” I asked.

  His brow darkened. He had never liked Carlos although he had accepted his presence in our nurseries to please me.

  “He shall have nothing of mine, but his mother’s family will make him a rich man.”

  That contented me.

  Felipe talked often of the time when we would go to Spain. He was anxious to return now. Don Luis was ready to take over his responsibilities. There was no reason why we should not go.

  We were blind to imagine that we could have married and none question it. The Queen of England had not dared to marry her lover after her lover’s wife had died mysteriously. Should the Governor of a small island be less immune?

  There were whispers.

  It was Manuela who first brought them to my knowledge.

  “Mistress,” she said, her brow puckered, “they are saying you are a witch.”

  “I … a witch. What nonsense is this?”

  “They are saying that you have bewitched the Governor. He were never as he is with you, before.”

  “Why should he be. I am his wife.”

  “He had a wife before, Senora.”

  “This is nonsense. You know what the Governor’s first wife was like.”

  “She were possessed by devils.”

  “She was simpleminded, half-mad.”

  “Possessed, they say. And that you commanded the devils to possess her.”

  I burst out laughing. “Then I hope you tell them what fools they were. She was possessed before I ever knew of her existence. You are aware of that.”

  “But they says she was possessed and you sent the devils to possess her.”

  “They are mad themselves.”

  “Yes,” she said uneasily. But that was the beginning.

  They watched me furtively. When I went into La Laguna I was aware of averted eyes and if I turned sharply I would find people were looking back at me. Once I heard the whispered word “Witch.”

  At the Casa Azul the shutters were closed. I heard that Pilar walked through the house lamenting. She stood at the top of the stairs and called to Isabella to come back to her, to tell her what happened on that fateful afternoon.

  Felipe pretended to be indifferent to the tension which was building up, but he did not deceive me. He came to our bedroom one evening and his face was set and anxious. He had spent most of the day in La Laguna.

  He said: “I would we were in Madrid. Then this nonsense would end.”

  “What nonsense is this?” I asked.

  “There has been much talk. Someone has been to La Laguna and talked recklessly. There is no alternative. A certain course will be taken.”

  “What course?”

  “I am speaking of Isabella’s death. There is to be an inquiry.”

  Manuela sat mending Carlos’ tunic. Her hands trembled as she did so.

  I said: “What ails you, Manuela?”

  She lifted her great sorrowful eyes to my face.

  “They have taken Edmundo away to be questioned. He was the one to find her. She was lying at the foot of the staircase with her neck broken. He was the one. They will question him.”

  “He will satisfy them with his answers,” I said, “and then he will come home.”

  “People who are taken for questioning often do not come back.”

  “Why should not Edmundo?”

  “When they question,” she said, “they will have the answer they want.”

  “Edmundo will be all right. He was always so good with Isabella. She was fond of him.”

  “She is dead,” said Manuela, “and he is taken for questioning.”

  I had learned since Manuela came to us that she and Edmundo had both been in the retinue Isabella had brought with her from Spain. Manuela had been one of her maids and Edmundo had known how to look after her when she was “possessed.” When the raiders had come Manuela had hidden and so saved herself; and she had been with Isabella during the months of pregnancy and the birth of Carlos. She had loved the child and tried to protect him from the alternate devotion and dislike of his mother; and when the boy had been put in charge of that dreadful harridan she had done what she could to help him.

  It was understandable that she should be sad because Edmundo had been taken in.

  I was astonished at the outcome of the questioning. Edmundo confessed that he had murdered his mistress. He had stolen a cross studded with rubies from her jewel box to give to a girl whom he wished to please. Isabella had caught him in the act of taking the cross and because he feared the consequences he had suffocated her by placing a damp cloth over her mouth. Then he had thrown her down the stairs.

  He was hanged in the plaza of La Laguna.

  “That is the end of the affair,” said Felipe.

  I could not get out of my mind the memory of big Edmundo lifting poor Isabella so gently in his arms as I had seen him do when she was suffering.

  “He was so gentle,” I said. “I cannot believe him capable of murder.”

  “There are many sides to men and women,” Felipe answered.

  “It is hard to believe this of Edmundo,” I said.

  “He has confessed and the matter is at an end, my love.”

  I was disturbed but glad that I could consider the mystery solved.

  Christmas came and went. I thought of home and the mummers, the wassailing and the Christmas bush. I wondered whether John Gregory had reached England yet and whether my mother had my letter.

  What a Christmas gift that would be for her!

  To Felipe’s disappointment I had not conceived. I was not sure whether I was disappointed or not. I longed for children, and yet I could not forget Isabella; even though Edmundo had confessed to murdering her,
she still seemed to stand between me and my husband. Sometimes I felt that my husband was a stranger to me. I never thought for one moment that he had ever loved Isabella. I believed him when he said that there had been one love in his life and that I was that love. That was something he could not hide. His love for me was expressed a hundred times during a single day. It was in the very inflection of his voice. Moreover, I had given him Roberto—a sturdy little fellow now three years of age… But there was something Felipe held back even from me, and perhaps for this reason I willed myself not to conceive. The fact remains that I did not, although I was not unhappy.

  It was never cold in Tenerife, for there was very little difference between the winter and summer; the only unpleasant days were those when the south winds blew from Africa and this was not frequent. I liked the damp warm atmosphere and I did not want to leave it for the extremes of temperature which I believed we should experience in Spain. I often thought of the cold winter days at home in the Abbey. Once the Thames had frozen and we had been able to walk across it. I remembered sitting around the great log fire in the hall and how the mummers had slapped their frozen hands into life before beginning their performance. I remembered so much of home; and sometimes I felt a dull pain in my throat, so great was my longing for it.

  Yet here I had a husband who loved me and a sweet son.

  In January the Cavalcade of the Three Wise Men took place and we took the children into La Laguna to watch it. What excitement there was and I listened with delight to the chattering children.

  Yes, there was so much that I enjoyed.

  Time slipped away and it was Holy Week and this was a time of great celebration. There were more processions in the town and when I saw the white robed figures coming from the Cathedral I was reminded so poignantly of the day I had sat in the plaza and looked on the misery of men, I felt suddenly nauseated; and a poignant longing for home swept over me.

  I had talked of my sudden desire for home to Honey and she admitted that she felt this too. She was adored by Don Luis; she had her little daughter even as I had my son; but our home was something we should never forget; and I believe that at the very heart of it was my mother—for Honey as well as for me.

  We had ridden into La Laguna on our mules to see the Holy Week procession and left the children at home because we feared they might be hurt in the crowds. Honey and I stood side by side. There were two grooms with us; we were never allowed to go far without protection. And as we stood on the edge of the crowd I felt someone press against me.