The Scroll of Seduction

by Gioconda Belli

  After my engagement, my life began to revolve entirely around preparations for the wedding. Unlike my sister Isabel, who had married Prince Alfonso of Portugal, in line to inherit the throne, I was not to marry a future king. However, preparations for my move to Flanders were the most ostentatious and expensive that had ever been seen in the Castilian court. Hardly four years had passed since the reconquest of Granada, the conquest of the Canary Islands, and the discovery of the Indies. During those four years, my parents’ kingdom had been established as one of the most solid and prosperous in all of Europe. Paired with the news of enormous riches discovered in the New World, where it was rumored there were entire cities built of silver and gold–my parents’ firm hand had imposed the crown’s mandate throughout the peninsula, subjugating disobedient nobility and corrupt clergy. All of this heralded good fortune for the “Catholic Monarchs,” as Pope Alexander VI had christened them.

  I never saw my mother more spirited than when she devoted herself to assembling the lavish armada that would take me to Flanders. Preparations for the journey began in the summer of 1495, but since the spring, the royal court had moved to the Villa de Almazán. From there the king and queen would supervise the fleet’s construction in the Cantabrian shipyards. It was a happy time for me. My father, who until then had scarcely acknowledged my existence, became a friend and accomplice. He would sit me on his lap or he would take me to the shipyards to show me the progress the artisans were making on the Genoese carracks that would transport my massive retinue. In addition to those, another fifteen biscayners and five caravels would transport the five thousand soldiers who were accompanying me in order to ensure our safe passage past the shores of a hostile France. I enjoyed watching the effect his presence had on the flocks of meticulous workers. My father wore power well. He had a natural flair for authority. His strong, athletic body seemed to take up far more space than he physically required. Even the most long-standing courtiers instinctively kept a prudent distance, as if he were a castle and they didn’t dare cross the invisible moat. For him to let down the drawbridge when I approached made me feel extremely special and important. I proudly noted the characteristics of his personality that I saw in myself, and if I had once attempted to sweeten my character and behave as a complacent damsel, those months taught me the advantages of not tempering my opinions or sacrificing my visions in order to gain the devious, fleeting approval of obsequious courtiers.

  My mother took pleasure in seeing how close my father and I were. Unfortunately, that happy filial period lasted only a few months. At the end of June, the French attacked Perpignan, and my father left for Catalonia in July. I remember when he bade me farewell. He called me “little queen.” He said that, as per Juan de Arbolancha’s suggestion, my mother had asked for the hundreds of ships transporting wool to Flanders to escort the wedding procession. One hundred and thirty-two boats would set sail simultaneously. You might not be marrying a king, my father said, smiling, but no one will doubt that you deserve to be a queen. I climbed up onto the battlement to watch him leave and stayed there until his entourage had disappeared from sight. I knew I would not see him for a long, long time and that when I did, things would be different. I had no idea just how different! It was my mother, then, who remained in charge of outfitting the ships. She rounded up the five thousand soldiers who would accompany me and taught more than two thousand members of my retinue about the particulars of the court of Flanders.

  On August 20, preparations for my departure were complete. The seemingly endless process of loading and boarding the ships began at dawn. In the afternoon, an unexpected storm lashed down on the Bay of Biscay. I had already made myself comfortable in my cabin. It had a large, open area as well as a bedroom with a bed that was attached to the wall of the ship. A thick, vermilion velvet curtain separated one area from the other. The antechamber had chairs, a narrow desk, a divan, and a small armoire for my musical instruments. By my side, my mother was gazing out the holland-covered peepholes, staring at the dark horizon and the white-crested waves. If nothing else, the heat had subsided, and the two of us had a moment of peace and solitude after the hustle and bustle of boarding. We’d wait together until the storm passed, she said. Maybe the weather was a gift that God was giving us before we were separated.

  “You will be far away, Juana. You are young and impressionable and I fear for you in the court of Flanders.”

  “WHAT DO YOU FEEL, AS A SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL ABOUT TO LEAVE behind everything you’ve ever known and loved to embark on a one-way journey?” Manuel asked.

  “Fear. And excitement. I think about the husband who’s waiting for me, I wonder if I’ll be happy, if he will really be ‘handsome,’ as they say he is.”

  “You play clavichord, though you also learned monochord and guitar. Of Isabel’s daughters, you are the most educated. That night, after dinner, as the carrack rocks back and forth in the water, you laugh with the young ladies in your entourage while your mother thinks how beautiful you are and tries to restrain her heart, so used to misfortune and discord. You look at her out of the corner of your eye, because you can sense her apprehension and her sadness. Realizing that you can make her feel these sentiments fills you with a certain sinister glee. You mother has never been much given to affection, causing you to wonder whether she loves you as much as your nursemaid María de Santiesteban, whose old face broke out in sobs when she bid you farewell in Valladolid. So the sight of your mother looking upset amid all the merrymaking and revelry makes you feel loved and cared for, it lightens the weight of the many uncertainties of your journey. You are not intimidated by the voyage at sea because you have loved it ever since you were a child, you have imagined it to be a liquid magic carpet ready to take you far away. What worries you is the arrival, what will happen when you disembark.

  FROM THE MOMENT I CROSSED THE GANGPLANK AND SET FOOT ON Captain Juan Pérez’s carrack, amid all the cases and bundles, I became fully aware that the most valuable cargo was stowed inside of me: within me I carry my noble rank, the blood of my illustrious ancestors, my beloved Spain. After my mother says good-bye and leaves the ship, I will be the sole anchor and motor of this expedition. I will be the ruler of this retinue. Meanwhile, I rejoice in my unexpected intimacy with Isabella. I enjoy watching the way tenderness flutters across her face and makes her eyes shine in a way I have never seen before. Tears. Can it be? That night we sleep in the same bed. I have not seen my mother in a nightdress ever since I was very small. Stripped of her regalia, she is but a woman with a flowing mane of long, graying hair cascading down her back. A chiseled face resting on a pillow. I must force my lips into a melancholic expression, dim my eyes so that she cannot sense that the prospect of living in the Flemish court, as the wife of the Archduke of Burgundy, arouses more excitement than fear in me. For years I have heard stories about the luxury and dazzle of that court. I have admired the exquisite craftmanship of their goldsmiths and silversmiths, the unrivaled armor of their blacksmiths, the tapestries woven on their looms. The magnificence of their jousts and competitions is legendary, as is the splendor of their banquets and celebrations. I have also heard biting criticism of the licentious ways of the Flemish nobility. I have sensed envy in the comments of those who were most scandalized by the liberality and practices of a court that according to them is far removed from the austerity so proudly praised in our Castilian reign. It so happens that lately, even a trivial lack of modesty can turn into an inquiry before the stern Tribunal of the Holy Inquisition.

  My mother locks her eyes on me and sees me as if I were her reflection in a mirror. She is with me, but she is also far away, her mind always looking beyond. I wonder if she might be recalling when she wed my father in secret and against the will of her brother, King Enrique IV. She has told me the tricks my father played to sneak into the castle at Medina del Campo, where the small, intimate ceremony took place. At that time she must have felt the same bewilderment and anxiety I feel, even more, I would think, since she co
uldn’t be sure whether or not she would sit upon the throne of Castile.

  “Do not forget your duties to Spain,” she says. “Your father and I have bet our youth and our health to unify this country. Your marriage will give us important allies and strengthen our position regarding France. You must conduct yourself as the princess of Castile and Aragon that you are, you must not be seduced by games and excesses,” she advises. “Your entourage is large, so you will be surrounded by your own. Seek support from the governor of your court, Admiral Don Fadrique Enríquez, a very noble man, and from young Beatriz de Bobadilla. She is young but wise.

  Marriage might seem strange to you not knowing your husband, but your youth and his will be fertile ground for any seed you wish to plant. Let your wish be to love him, and love him you will. Do not be aloof and keep your temper under control. Men are afraid of fiery women, so be discreet and conceal your fire. Ward off the rainstorms that could extinguish your flames.”

  My mother keeps saying this and that. Her voice fades in and out, swayed by the rocking of the ship, and the gusts of wind blowing over the Bay of Biscay on that dark night, lit up intermittently by distant lightning.

  THE NEXT DAY, IT RAINS. I STAY IN MY CABIN WHILE MY MOTHER fights off her anxiety by going over the provisions for the journey with the ladies-in-waiting. That night, we dine with Beatriz Galindo. While we’re having dessert, she takes from her bodice a small vial of liquid, made by the Moorish slaves. It is a love potion, she tells me, that I must take and give to my husband. She has been told it is a foolproof philter and will make us love each other till the end of our days.

  Beatriz pours half of the liquid into my wineglass and I take it without saying a word, thinking of Isolde and the dangers of love.

  Beatriz and my mother titter like naughty girls.

  “Well, we shall see if it works. And do not tell your father about this; these are women’s secrets.”

  We were still laughing when the armada’s admiral, Don Sancho de Bazán, came to the door to tell us that the storm had passed and that favorable winds were blowing. With the queen’s royal assent, we would set sail early the following morning.

  My mother praised God and gave her consent for departure. With her habitual discretion, Beatriz took her leave and left us alone. We slept very little that night, thinking that perhaps we would never be together again.

  “One day you’ll see, Juana, how hard it is to let your children go. In the course of everyday life as they are growing up, you see your children and barely comprehend you once held that life in your womb. But all it takes is a farewell or a hazard to make your body riot and your blood dash in search of the creature you nurtured. But it is life’s design that the greater love be the more giving, the one who leaves nothing for itself. I feel infinitely sad and infinitely happy. Sad because I am losing my daughter; happy because I am gaining a partner in the undertaking of making Spain greater and more prosperous.”

  The next day dawn had barely broken by the time everything was ready. Good-byes were prolonged by the procession: everyone kissed the hand of the queen, and then she gave her recommendations. Finally, it was my turn. I could hear my mother’s heartbeat as I pressed myself to her chest. How it pounded! Neither of us wanted to cry, but nor did we want to let go of each other. We didn’t utter a word. She made the sign of the cross on my forehead. I knelt and kissed her hand.

  My mother stood on the pier and I on the ship’s deck until there was no longer any coastline my eyes could see and I was left alone before the endless sea and the clear, blue sky of a shimmering day. I felt I was traveling on a long-tailed kite. As far as my eyes could see, there were brightly colored banderoles and plumes flapping in the wind, decorating the masts of the 131 ships that escorted me. It was a splendid sight. I felt like the character from a love song the minstrels would sing. Accompanied by Don Fadrique and other men and ladies of the court, I spent many hours on the carrack’s deck those first days, admiring the calm seas and the schools of dolphins that swam along with us for long stretches of the journey, dipping and gliding effortlessly alongside the ships. Ships navigated in pairs. My Genoese carrack was in the center of the armada.

  After three days of smooth, uneventful sailing, a furious storm lashed down, forcing us to anchor in the English port of Portsmouth. During the two days we were forced to stop there, the English nobility paid me homage. They arrived in haste as soon as news reached them of the floating city’s unexpected arrival. I lodged in Portchester Castle, by the shore. It was an ancient building with poorly lit rooms and halls, but our hosts did what they could to ensure our comfort. After eight hours of tempestuous seas that tossed us back and forth with no mercy, most of my entourage was a wretched, pale lot. But since rough seas affected neither my stomach nor my equilibrium, the English found me singularly beautiful, and told me so repeatedly. It was only years later that I learned that King Henry VII himself had come, to see me from afar, since protocol would not allow for a king to leave the seat of his throne to receive a princess. Apparently my beauty had been exaggerated to such a degree that he could not resist the temptation to see me in person. I assumed he wanted to satisfy his curiosity. My sister Catalina–or Catherine, as the English called her–was about to be engaged to his son, and he must have felt the urge to see the stock that was about to join his own.

  After that mishap we continued on our way with no additional setbacks until we hit a sandbank at our destination, the port of Arnemuiden, in Flanders, where I arrived on September 9, 1496. Still on the high seas, I was transferred to a biscayner, which transported me to the shore of the land that would become my adoptive country. Meanwhile, another Genoese carrack loaded with gifts for the Flemish court ran aground and was holed in the keel. Originally, my trousseau–consisting of fifty trunks–was to have made the journey on that ship. Fortunately, at the last moment, my mother had ordered all of my belongings moved to the flagship, so I had nothing to regret and dedicated myself to making sure that all biscayners available were used to save those who had been shipwrecked, so that all were rescued.

  “LUCíA, HOW DO YOU THINK JUANA FELT ON THAT JOURNEY?”

  “Amazed, spellbound. She must have loved the English reception, the chance to shine her own light for once, without being overshadowed by her parents. I remember what it was like when I was a child, that feeling of not existing in your own right. Adults would search my face for traces of my parents, as if it were a question of ascertaining the quality of the copy. I wasn’t the one they were interested in. What they wanted was to ingratiate themselves with my parents. It must have been the same for Juana. On the voyage, she must have realized that leaving her parents would mean she could be herself. Like the little chick that hatches from the egg one minute, and then a couple of hours later totters around on the grass with no hesitation. Maybe that’s why she didn’t get seasick even though the rough seas took their toll on everyone else; maybe it was a way to assert her character. People had always admired her bravery and her strength, right? As far as her beauty goes, I’m not sure how aware of that she was. I say that, based on my experience, though of course it’s not the same thing. I mean, I like what I see in the mirror, I’m not going to lie, but it depends on the day and on my mood. I sense that beauty is full of contradictions. It is quite obvious, judging from the world we live in, that beauty is no small gift for a woman. I myself have prayed to God to spare me from being ugly, but I have also wondered if it’s fair to say that someone is ugly, as if that mattered in the least. It certainly doesn’t for men.”

  I had turned to look at Manuel, who was sitting behind me with his face forward, brushing against the arm I had thrown over the back of the chair. He seemed to be trying to detect signs of another time in me, although his eyes did not look into mine, nor were they focused within the confines of the room. Out of the blue, he laid his forehead on my arm, as if he were overwhelmingly exhausted. His sudden lapse made me uncomfortable, but he appeared to recover quickly and offered an apologet
ic smile.

  I recalled the first time I had gone to his apartment. We had wine with lunch, and since it made me sleepy, he told me to feel free to lie down on his sofa and sleep for a while. It was almost four in the afternoon. I had to return to school two hours later, but the Noviciado metro stop was very nearby. I knew that if I could manage to drift off for even ten minutes, I would stop feeling so lethargic. I closed my eyes. I could hear him moving around, lighting a fire, filling the coffeepot with water. Typical Sunday noises filtered through the window: conversations on the street, cars passing sporadically, doors closing. Distant, muffled sounds that failed to intrude into the placid tranquility of siesta time; that remained trapped in the periphery of the motionless circle whose center was the sofa where I lay. Despite the fact that I knew the nuns would not approve of me visiting the apartment of a man I hardly knew, I liked the idea of being there. I felt comfortable, at ease, adult. The solitude that surrounded Manuel acted like an instantaneous link between us, a virtue we shared. It didn’t cross my mind to wonder about the unusual interest of a grown man for the friendship and company of a young girl like me. I woke up to Manuel’s long fingers stroking my head. When I opened my eyes, his face was very close to mine and he kissed me lightly on the lips. “Wake up, little one,” he said, looking at me tenderly. I had thought of that kiss often over the summer, and it always made my mouth tingle.

  “Let’s go on,” he said, interrupting my reverie. “I want to tell you about Juana and Philippe the Handsome’s first encounter. You have arrived at Arnemuiden. The news that awaits you as soon as you disembark is that your future husband is not there to welcome you. You get this information from a Spanish noblewoman, María Manuela, the wife of Balduin of Burgundy. King Maximilian of Austria, Philippe’s father, has assigned her and a small group of courtiers to receive you instead.