The Scroll of Seduction

by Gioconda Belli

  “Once,” he said, drawing on his cigarette. “See? At least I admit it.” He smiled, looking at me.

  “You did?” Águeda asked, amazed. “I hope it wasn’t one of those silly students of yours who call you up and never want to leave a message.”

  “Good God, Águeda, those are students!” Manuel exclaimed.

  “They’re young girls. The sort you claim fall madly in love.”

  “I think it’s time to change the subject,” Manuel said, looking at his watch as he stood up. “Lucía and I have to get on with our history of Queen Juana.”

  “Go on, off to the library. I’ll make lunch.”

  I helped Manuel light a fire. We hardly spoke. Hand me this; light that. Pass me the dress. I asked him why he insisted on my wearing it. I didn’t need it to feel like Juana anymore. That was what I thought, he said. There was no dissuading him. Naked, my arms crossed over my chest as I waited for him to slip it over my head, I felt more vulnerable than before, as if last night had changed things. Maybe Manuel was right and today I did need the damned dress. Maybe, I thought, having breached the circle where we played Juana and Philippe would affect my ability to inhabit that timeless space Manuel conjured up with his words, that space where Juana’s inner thoughts came to me so clearly that I found it hard to distinguish between the words he spoke and the conversations, thoughts, and feelings I imagined as his voice reached me.

  Águeda’s comment about Manuel’s students had upset me. I found myself wondering if he gave this sort of “lesson” to other girls too. Was it just a way to seduce girls?

  WHERE WERE WE? WE LEFT OFF IN TOLEDO, RIGHT? ARTHUR OF Wales died and Philippe is the one who gave the Catholic Monarchs the news. The next day, the city went into mourning. As you feared, Juana, you are surrounded by courtiers dressed in black for nine days. Philippe takes refuge in your rosy skin, and it’s all you can do to force him out of bed to accompany you to mass and to say prayers for the dead. How can you stand all that prudishness, all those priests and prayers? he asks. What is it about your countrymen that makes them so terrified of hellfire?

  Worried about your husband’s state of mind, you speak to your parents and agree that while you and Philippe wait for the Cortes of Aragon to anoint you, a group of nobles will take the prince under their tutelage and ensure that his spirits do not flag, showing him the splendors and the potential of his new kingdom. Your father cannot help but comment sarcastically that it would be far easier for Spain to seduce Philippe with amusements and pleasures than with reasons of State. While you and your mother preside over masses and mourning, your husband goes off to Aranjuez to play pelota and doesn’t return until his daily routine has dissolved the sorrow. When he does come back, he goes on hunting trips with his father-in-law in the forests of the sierra. He practices his falconry and takes part in Spanish-style jousts. He learns about bull-fighting. He is pampered by the court, where everyone makes an effort to keep him entertained. So attentive is the court to Philippe that in the end he feels obliged to repay their generosity. With his characteristic charm, he convinces you to help him secretly organize a banquet in your parents’ honor: a Flemish banquet. Dressed in a golden dress with a wide, Burgundian ermine neckline, choker, canary diamond earrings, and a high-crowned hat with a very fine, gold-thread veil hanging from the tip, you stand beside him to receive the delighted guests of honor. During the banquet you exchange complicit glances with your parents and your old friend the bishop of Cambray, and Jean’s brother, Henry de Berghes, leader of the pro-Spanish faction in Flanders. Meanwhile, the archbishop of Besançon, François de Busleyden, and Philippe’s pro-French advisors hardly eat a bite and stare at you with ill-concealed hostility.

  THE BOAR, PIG, AND DEER WERE BOUNTIFUL AT THAT BANQUET where, under candelabras burning with the light of hundreds of aromatic candles, we drank the best Burgundian wine, and I imagined my future realms as an amalgamation of the best that Flanders and Spain could offer. One day I would preside over a court that would be the epitome of tolerance and culture, the best in Europe. I saw myself ruling Spain with my children and Philippe by my side. We would be a fortunate, loving couple whose throne would bring together not only ancient pedigrees but also the new colonies of the vast Americas that would be ours to explore and govern. My naive dreams spread to rugs, curtains, faces, dishes, and I thought that all of that grace and beauty would protect me and keep me safe from plots, intrigues, and misfortune. Later, when Philippe and I were alone, I played clavichord for him and danced the dances my Moorish slaves had taught me. But after we made love, as we were lying in bed commenting on the details of the feast, he suddenly burst out laughing and began to make fun of my compatriots, of the crude manners of this duke or that marquis, the smell of the priests’ beards, and the greasy, “unimaginative” cooking. He’d never appreciated Flanders as much as now, being in Spain, he said. It was taking all of his patience to keep waiting for the Cortes of Aragon to receive us so that we could finally be declared heirs. He thought the delay was just a ruse, so that we’d be forced to postpone our departure. He claimed my father was hoping to hold the ceremony in the midst of the French conflict with the Aragonese crown, so that Philippe would be forced to take sides against his friend, the king of France. The bishop of Besançon had told him that tensions over the division of Naples were on the verge of provoking another war between the kingdom of Aragon and France.

  “Your father wants to force me to make enemies with Louis at all costs. He does not realize that my loyalties are not at Spain’s disposal.”

  “Besançon advises you poorly, Philippe,” I said, pretending his words had no effect on me. “You’re speaking against your own interests. You will one day be king of Spain and you must embrace the Spanish cause now.”

  “It is I who shall decide the Spanish cause when the time comes. I have no reason to inherit petty rows that will serve only to isolate Flanders from her historic allies; I have no reason to continue your parents’ politics. You shall see. When we return to Flanders I will get rid of Henry de Berghes. I cannot stand his complacency, his servility to all things Spanish. You are the only agent of Castile and Aragon that I need. You smell divine,” he said, burying his head between my breasts. “You are my Castilian flower; you have given me the most beautiful children; you are my Spain.”

  Philippe knew just how to put out the fire before the flame reached the powder keg and caused an explosion. How could I defy him when he spoke such beautiful words? I didn’t want to. It was important for him to feel that he was the one in power. He couldn’t fully accept the idea that I would be queen and he, my consort. That meant that I had to be on guard to ensure I didn’t offend him by insinuating that my words held more weight than his. He was of the opinion, for example, that the Aragonese could easily avoid amending Salic law by simply ruling him heir to the kingdom. It wounded his pride to see them take so long debating how to brush him aside. He did not possess my father’s wisdom, or his ability to amass real authority and forego the formality of titles. And I, lacking my mother’s fortitude, found myself unable to confront him. I feared his fits of rage, dreaded the arrogance he displayed whenever he felt insecure. His sudden mood swings kept me on edge at all times. It took all my energy to mollify him, to make sure his pride was intact so that he would at least be willing to keep playing his hand in the game life had seen fit to deal us.

  Before we got up the next day, I resorted to love and passion in an attempt to convince him not to get rid of Berghes and to insist that my father, more than anyone, was the one trying to speed things up in Aragon. I asked him not to listen to anyone telling him differently. I reminded him how worried and courteous his father-in-law had been when he visited him in his sickbed in Olías. I extolled de Berghes’s kindness, how well he treated me, and begged him not to be so rash. And for a few months, my efforts were successful and he gave up his plans. But hardly had summer arrived when the hot sun penetrated my husband’s body, desiccating him and requiring vast stor
es of water to refresh and cool him. He treated me like a despot, ridiculing my intelligence and then, hours later, cornering me in my chambers and telling me he never tired of my beauty. The oppressive, dry summer felled the Flemish like a plague. There was no dancing or laughter to be found in the torpor of those stifling afternoons. It must have been August when Emperor Maximilian of Austria wrote to Philippe, exhorting him to collaborate with my parents. Rather than have the desired effect, however, the letter sent him into a state of extreme agitation. Philippe detested his father’s interference in his affairs, although nothing pleased him more than his approval. He accused my parents of spreading false rumors and intrigue to turn his father against him. And since he did not dare indict them directly, he took it out on me, denigrating Spain and hurling epithets. Despite my remonstrations, he kept his word and ordered Henry de Berghes and the pro-Spanish members of the court to return to Flanders immediately.

  My mother, who thought that women’s wiles held magic powers, begged me to intervene. I told her that it was my intervention that had led to his decision being postponed for several months, but she insisted that if Philippe refused to listen to me now, it was because I had not been sufficiently convincing and would have to make a stronger case. The sexual spell I was said to have cast was the talk of the palace in Toledo; it had become legendary. Who could deny the passion between my husband and I, they said, after having heard me moan in pleasure, the sound carrying through the silent corridors at night? Besides, my body could not lie. I was pregnant again. For my husband to keep frolicking with me when I was already five months gone was proof enough of insatiable appetites that broke even the most basic tenets of Christian moderation. All of which made my mother think that my powers were the oldest weapon women possessed and capable of achieving absolutely anything.

  Aggrieved at my inability to make her see what a difficult position I was in, I finally decided to reveal to her the flip side of my nocturnal paradise, telling her about my husband’s moods. I don’t know how much she believed, but finally, seeming unconvinced and displeased, she stopped reproaching me and resolved to speak to him herself. To no avail. Not only did she butt up against his Flemish hardheadedness, as I had, but the conversation actually made her fear and despair for the future she had so carefully been forging for Spain. It was a great setback for her to realize that after all of her efforts, her son-in-law’s loyalties still lay outside the borders of Castile and Aragon. Neither she nor I knew how to gauge the hidden rage that led Philippe to contradict his father. I think that was when my mother hatched the plan to confront him and force him to clearly and openly commit to the mandate he would inherit. She was calculating, and she knew that such an action would force Philippe to weigh up his love for me, and vice versa. Of course, in that stratagem I was to be the propitiatory victim, like Abraham’s Isaac, or Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia.

  The heat wreaked havoc on the Fleming’s health and conspired with destiny to aggravate the tense situation. Early one morning toward the end of summer, the archbishop of Besançon, François de Busleyden, was taken ill. In the wee hours, they came and knocked on our door, requiring Philippe’s presence, and he got dressed immediately and rushed out. He returned a few hours later, distraught, and tore off his clothes. The smell of death was all about him, he said. He looked like a disconsolate little boy, crying mournfully. Busleyden, more than his father, had raised him. He’d been his tutor and advisor from a very tender age. And yet Philippe’s love had proved unable to keep him alive. He was overcome with sorrow and rage, emitting horrible, guttural sounds as he attempted to speak, his choked words repeating spitefully that Busleyden had been poisoned. My people, he objected, were responsible for this. My people had assassinated the wisest and most loyal of all his advisors. Pacing frantically, he shouted that my father was to blame, that if he thought this would make him abandon his alliance with France, he was wrong. The more I attempted to calm him, the more hysterical he became. He called for majordomos and chamberlains, ordering them to prepare for our departure. He didn’t plan to wait for them to kill him, he cried. He would not stay on in Toledo. We would go to Zaragoza, and whether the Cortes of Aragon anointed us or not, we’d head to France as soon as possible.

  I took advantage of the reigning chaos to send word to my mother in Madrid, through one of my best horsemen, so she could be apprised of the situation. When I returned to Philippe, he was shouting orders, insisting that the Castilian guards leave the palace so that Flemish soldiers could take their place. Next he ran like a madman to the kitchen and fired all the cooks. It would take a few days to embalm Busleyden’s body and prepare for our departure, and in the meantime he wasn’t taking any chances. I, of course, could not feign the same sorrow at the archbishop’s death, nor did I commit the blunder of insisting that there was no way my father had been involved. I kept quiet. Philippe could interpret my silence as he saw fit.

  My mother responded to my message with one of her own, addressed to Philippe. She was terribly sorry to hear of the archbishop’s sudden death, but she commanded Philippe to remain in Spain and forsake his idea of returning to Flanders via France. Hostilities had intensified, and we could all end up as Louis XII’s hostages. My father, in turn, sent an emissary with the news that the Cortes of Aragon were finally ready to carry out the ceremony and swear us in as heirs to the throne.

  Before leaving for Zaragoza, Philippe wrote to the king of France to keep him abreast of the situation, request a private meeting, and ask for his assurance that we would not be taken hostage while traveling through France. Louis sent a friendly reply. We had nothing to fear, and in order to prove it he was sending ten nobles to Brussels as a guarantee of his pledge; they would remain there until we had returned safe and sound.

  “You see, Juana? Instead of taking advantage of His Highness’s respect for me and delegating me to agree to a truce with the French, your parents want me to cut my ties. That is what worries them; they are well aware that we are at no risk traveling through France. The only place I am in danger is here; that is why no one will change my mind about this. I promised my dear mentor when he was on his deathbed.”

  ZARAGOZA RECEIVED US WITH AS MUCH SPLENDOR AS TOLEDO HAD. Crowds cheered. The royal standards of Aragon, Valencia, Sicily, Mallorca, Sardinia, and the county of Barcelona fluttered in the wind above thousands of people clad in red who lined up to kiss our hands as an expression of respect and subjugation. Bells rang, doves were set free, colored ribbons hung from every balcony. The Cortes of Aragon, however, had imposed a condition. I was to be named queen, but if I died, Philippe would not be king. What is more, if my father remarried after my mother’s death and had an heir, the crown of Aragon would go to his child.

  Shortly after the ceremony, my father left to return to Madrid, concerned about my mother, who was confined to bed with fever. Before leaving he asked a very sullen Philippe to preside over the remaining formal sessions of the Cortes. My vain prince interpreted this deference as a conciliatory gesture that recognized his status as future king. We were both naive. When the session opened, seated beside him under the canopy of the chapter house, I gazed at Philippe, his chin held high, his chest stiff, his eyes taking in the crowds, and I felt a mixture of pride and tenderness. Like me, he was maturing, trying to fill the mold of the statues that would be erected in his honor.

  The secretary stood to read the order of the day. Then we realized the trap my father had set: the session Philippe was to preside over was intended to approve the subsidy needed to finance the war with France. Outrage spread throughout the Flemish party present there. I felt the cacophonous grumbling and comments being directed at me as the crowd turned my way, like wild horses in a nightmare. They must have thought I was complicit in the ploy. Philippe defended me gallantly. He stood and turned to me, as calm and majestic as any sovereign, bowing to me and asking my permission to open the session. Then, as a Spanish sovereign would have done, he proceeded to address the agenda.

 
Relief, fear. I don’t know what my overriding feeling was; but I was perfectly aware of the fact that at any moment the tides might turn against me. My clothes were suddenly too tight; I felt tangled up and couldn’t breathe. I remember that was the first time I forced my mind to take flight. While the meeting was in session, I pictured the first clavichord I’d had as a child, with orange and amber details painted on the wood; I imagined its marble keys, the Josquin des Pres sheet music with its black notes, and though my eyes were open and my hands still, I once again became an eight-year-old girl reading music. In my mind, my fingers played the melody note by note. My body found its harmony, and I left the chapter house tension behind.

  Once the vote was approved, Philippe closed the session. The movement of bodies getting up to leave broke the spell I had been under. I breathed deeply, peacefully. My blood flowed easily and I was calm as we left the premises.

  After that incident, I had no doubt as to how I should react. The pendulum of my loyalties stopped swinging. I decided it was time to place marital love above filial love. Whatever the disagreements between my husband and I, our marriage required that we both wear a coat of mail to protect ourselves. Beyond the moat that was our hostility lay the fortress where our children lived. I too wished to return to Flanders. I missed my son and daughters. I pictured their days and nights, and I ached to caress them so badly my fingertips hurt. Why deny that Philippe could negotiate peace with His Majesty Louis XII? He did not feel the rancor of Spain, and his mind would be clear, his resolve more stable. My father’s dirty trick reminded me that in my family, the role of power always outranked that of parent.

  THAT NIGHT I OFFERED MY HUSBAND MY LOYALTY. I PROMISED TO make common cause with him, to support his desire to return to Flanders via France. All of the rage that had kept him distant and haughty with me, his face tense, his hands stuffed into his pockets, collapsed like a windless sail. His sarcastic, scathing look melted into the sensual, complicit embrace that had first seduced me. That was all he had hoped for, to have me on his side, he said. I would not regret my decision, I’d see. He wouldn’t let me down, and in the end my parents would be forced to realize that their authoritarianism did not always bring the results they hoped for.