I threw all my energy into preparing for our departure. I ordered new saddles as gifts for my children. I ordered mantillas for my sister-in-law Marguerite and other ladies in Brussels. I ordered new, wide dresses for my time in the French court, where Philippe and I would settle the issue of Charles and Claudia’s wedding, which I had finally agreed to. The comforts that were to be provided for me on our return journey demanded great care, given that I was now in my seventh month of pregnancy. As a rule I cared little for that sort of luxury, but this time I had to ensure that nothing caused me to go into labor prematurely, to avoid the gauche possibility of giving birth to a Frenchman.
One night before we left, I dreamed about a fire I had seen when I was little and my parents’ court was camped near Granada. Years later I still recalled the tents in the sierra burning in the night, the fire branding the sky with its ephemeral signs, the sentinels who’d become human torches, attempting to flee and leaving behind the sickening stench of burned flesh. In the dream, I was searching for my children in the flames, to no avail. I could hear their distant cries, but when I got nearer, their wailing turned into the piercing howls of those burned at the stake in the autos-da-fé. I woke up distraught, terrified, and jumped out of bed as if the devil himself were after me. In the corridor I bumped into Philippe, who’d come to tell me that my mother had sent a messenger, requiring his presence in Madrid. The queen wished to see him before we left, and he could not decline, especially given her delicate health. He would ride post, night and day, so as not to waste time, and be back as soon as he could. Tenderly, he kissed my round belly, then my forehead, and my lips, and he was off.
I stayed in bed all day. Each time I closed my eyes, I heard my children cry.
“ISN’T IT WEIRD THAT ISABEL CALLED FOR PHILIPPE AND NOT FOR Juana?” I asked Manuel.
“When Ferdinand got to Madrid and told the queen about the terms that the Cortes of Aragon had imposed, Isabella feared for the unity of Spain, which was what she’d dedicated her life to. She wasn’t happy to learn that once she died, if Ferdinand remarried and had a son, Juana would be stripped of the crown of Aragon. She knew the Aragonese would make her daughter pay dearly for her husband’s fondness for the French. And she felt it was unacceptable that, having accepted Ferdinand’s infidelity for the sake of her children’s inheritance, the whims of a foreign prince could now come along and put her legacy at risk. If Philippe loved Juana, he should renounce his friendship with Louis and stay in Spain. She summoned him because she wanted to be frank with him and tell him how much he was risking by letting his urges dictate his actions.”
“Did she convince him?”
“Ha! Not at all. Philippe kept insisting that he could stop the war and thus gain favor with Aragon. He told the queen about his responsibilities to his subjects, who threatened to rise up in arms if he did not return, and added that his father needed him in Germania. No. The queen did not convince him, nor did the king. Philippe spent three days in Madrid insisting that his decision was irreversible, arguing with your mother and father, who were unable to dissuade him. Then Isabel pulled the ace from her sleeve: you, Juana.
“Given that he wouldn’t listen to reason, she said, there was nothing she could do to stop him. But she would not allow your life and that of your unborn child to run the risk of being victims of his obstinacy. She would not permit you to travel through the Pyrenees in the dead of winter. If he decided to leave without you, he’d have to wait until your health, the war, and the climate permitted you to return to Flanders. You mother tried, as a last resort, to insinuate that Philippe might lose you, to make him believe that not only the crown, but his marriage too was at stake.”
“How did he react?”
“Well, the queen did make him vacillate for the first time. But in the end, he didn’t change his plans.”
TWELVE DAYS AFTER PHILIPPE LEFT FOR MADRID, THE PALACE LOOKOUT sighted a party of men on horseback. I was flooded with relief, but when I looked out the window to see the group of new arrivals, there was no sign of Philippe. It was the Marquis of Villena, come to bring me a message. The marquis appeared before me, looking very handsome and gallant. His brown eyes, peeking out from underneath perfectly arched brows, looked me up and down, making no attempt to conceal their admiration. Dressed in leather breeches and a woolen cape, he took his hat off respectfully. I, however, was in no mood for courtesy. I immediately ordered him to tell me the reason Philippe was still in Madrid.
“Your Highness, your husband awaits you in Alcalá de Henares. He has sent me here to escort you. I have instructions to make the journey in stages, so you are not worn out, but as far as what he wishes to tell you, only he knows that.”
“I beg you, tell me if the queen is in good health,” I asked hesitantly, suspecting she was gravely ill or in her death throes. But the Marquis of Villena calmed my fears at once.
“Your Highness, the queen has recovered. Fear not for her health.”
We prepared to depart in just a few hours. Though I dared not feel optimistic, I wondered if the queen had persuaded Philippe to remain in Spain. Beatriz de Bobadilla, my loyal first lady, was of the same opinion, and even Madame de Hallewin seemed to feel it could be so. In fact, she sulked and seemed withered on the way to Alcalá, so unappealing was the idea of staying to her. Beatriz and I, on the other hand, started imagining the implications of such a decision and spent the whole trip discussing the best way of moving the children, which palace would be the best suited residence for Philippe and I, and who should be in our entourage.
MY SPIRITS COULD NOT HAVE BEEN LESS CONDUCIVE TO HEARING the news Philippe gave me. The moment I saw him, I noticed his shifty look and the stiff way he held himself. In just a few days, his face had grown sharper, more angular. After welcoming me and asking for us to be left alone, there was hardly any vestige of the tendernes he’d shown when bidding me farewell. Though I was sitting beside the fire, I felt cold. I sat listening to him beat around the bush for what seemed ages as he attempted to explain his decision to return to Flanders. And little by little, as his words dashed my hopes, I felt the fury within me take on the force of a whirlwind. When I spoke, the words shot out of my mouth like daggers. Spite ruled my speech. This was how he repaid my loyalty, he who felt so committed to his? Was I not the person who best knew what my body could or could not handle, how strong I was? Why this sudden concern for my health, when these considerations had not hampered our plans to leave until this point? If he thought my parents were so sensible, their reasoning so sound, why not wait himself until our child was born in Spain? There were only two months left. If we parted now, who knew when we would be reunited? Had I not been patient when month after month, for over a year, he put off our journey to Spain to be recognized by the Cortes? Why this sudden urgency that made him unconcerned about leaving me behind, far from him, from my children, and under my parents’ rule? Did he have no idea how much I missed my children? What if I died in childbirth?
I paced back and forth like a crazed pendulum, unable to calm myself or keep quiet. I went from questions he left unanswered to insults aimed at provoking any sort of reaction at all. I called him shiftless, weak, dim-witted, incapable of ruling a kingdom. What were his stupid Low Countries compared to the power of Spain? He was an arrogant fool, I spat. He was unable to put aside his pettiness to take the reins that destiny held out to him.
Speechless, Philippe stared at me from his seat beside the fire. His silence made me even more furious, enraged at my desperation and my impotence. I wanted to bang my head against the wall, to kick and scream, to destroy. I could not accept the idea of staying in Spain without Philippe by my side. And beneath my rage spread fear, like a lake whose waters were rising, threatening to drown me. I was sure that as soon as he left, my parents would take control, moving me this way and that like a pawn on a chessboard. I would have less freedom than the most wretched of my slaves. My eyes bulged in unbridled fear, and believing all was lost, I knelt before Philippe
and clung to his legs, imploring.
When he realized I had lost my composure and my arrogance, it was his turn to be livid. He pushed me aside, saying that he detested everything I represented, my dark, parched country full of bloodthirsty monks and fatuous, twisted nobles, my country of ignorant fools, of murderers. Who was I to talk if the throne I was to inherit had been usurped, the kingdom built on deceit, blessed by lascivious popes, if my parents governed by authority alone? Was it possible that I did not see that the very nobility that surrounded them also abhorred them? He had never seen a court so full of intrigue and deceit, so quick to betray and stab others in the back. Nothing but a band of murderers, and he would not allow them to kill another of his friends, much less him. My father was ready to get rid of anyone who stood in his way. I was the only one who couldn’t see how twisted his mind was.
He would not return to Spain like some sacrificial lamb. He would make allies with those who would protect him. Could I really not see that my father would willingly sacrifice both of us even if tears blinded him?
He was no fool, my Philippe. A long while later I would recall those words, again and again, but that day they sounded so terribly unfair. Sprawled on the floor, I covered my ears and told him to get out, told him I didn’t want to see his face for another second, told him to go hunt and drink with his French friends, those idlers who did nothing but stand around in salons and dance basse danse and pavanes. That is how my love and I took our leave. Philippe departed, and I stayed on to rot in Castile, like carrion for the vultures.
CHAPTER 13
Have a chocolate, Lucía.”
While Philippe left for France, and poor Juana bore her pregnancy under her mother’s watchful eye; while the events of the early sixteenth century left a trail of sadness and dismay among the books in the library, Manuel and I took a lunch break. Águeda served lasagna on a silver platter. For dessert, we had little cakes and the chocolates she was now holding out to me in a beautiful gold box. Gazing at the pair of them, aunt and nephew, seated side by side, I was astonished by how much they resembled each other: light eyes, arched brows, small, narrow noses, and wide lips. There was a majestic aura about them that came more from their limited interest in the present than it did their ancestry. The only discordant note, in Águeda’s case, was her excessively made-up look and her bulky bracelet.
“You look so much alike,” I said.
“My sister and I were twins.”
“Really?” I was surprised.
“Yes, but my mother was the black sheep of the family. The ‘mad woman in the house,’ and I don’t mean that in the sense Saint Teresa did when she discussed the imagination,” Manuel said.
“She was imaginative, though. A lot more than me. I was always the practical one. She was the dreamer, the one who believed in art, the bohemian. And she was not mad, Manuel, though she may have shown poor judgment. She was born in the wrong time and thought my father would understand her need to rebel. She was wrong. From then on, no one in this house dared to question his parental authority. My mother and I couldn’t help her. This means nothing to either of you, I know; you have no idea how strict our father was.” Águeda sat stirring sugar into her coffee, staring off into space.
“Good God, Aunt Águeda, here we are in the late sixties and the police still ban making out in public,” Manuel interrupted jokingly. “Things haven’t changed that much.”
“Oh yes, they have. Believe me,” she said, looking up, emerging from her reverie. “People are rebelling all over the world. All you have to do is turn on the news and see those girls in Washington burning their brassieres. Young people today know time is on their side. You’re not so scared anymore, not as tortured by scruples as we were.”
“But Manuel’s mother married very young, didn’t she?” I asked.
“She never married,” Manuel said, tearing off a chunk of bread. “I was born out of wedlock. My father was a high school teacher who decided to disappear without a trace rather than face his would-be in-laws. And my grandparents disinherited my mother, just in case he decided to turn up. They took everything from her. Even her son.”
“Believe me, Manuel, it was better that way, better for you to just forget about your father. And I didn’t mind at all, not since the first time I saw you, so tiny, so sweet. Aurora never came back. I raised Manuel,” Águeda said, smiling beatifically as she gazed over at him.
“Until I was sent to boarding school…”
“I would never have sent you to boarding school, Manuel, you know that, although I did think, later, that it was best for you to be away from your grandparents.”
“Don’t remind me of what I went through. They wanted to make such a proper Castilian of me, they almost finished me off,” he said, turning to face me.
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t save you from getting your behind whipped a good many times!” Águeda added, suddenly playful, as she tossed Manuel a chocolate.
“Oh yes, Auntie. You were my guardian angel.” He laughed, catching it.
“Well, it was the least I could do for poor Aurora.”
“What did your mother die of, Manuel?”
They looked at each other.
“An overdose. Tranquilizers. She committed suicide in a hotel in Portofino,” he replied.
“Poor Aurora never recovered after father kicked her out.”
“That’s terrible!” I said.
“Yes, child, sometimes parents do terrible things. And the worst part is that they think they’re doing them out of love.” She sighed.
“Do you know how long Isabel and Ferdinand forced Juana to stay in Spain after they refused to let her go back to Flanders with Philippe?”
“Oh, Manuel, come on, you’re going to bore her to death.”
“How long?” I asked, curious. Besides, royalty seemed like a safer topic.
“A whole year. After Juana returned to Flanders, her relationship with Philippe was never the same again.”
“That year in Spain marked the beginning of her madness, didn’t it, Manuel? She insisted they let her go back. She shouted at her mother, hit the people who took care of her,” Águeda said.
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “It must have been infuriating for a woman with four children of her own to be told she has no free will and can’t even go home.”
“You see, Auntie? It’s a question of perspective. A modern woman cannot see how the rebellion Juana was accused of is anything but fully justified.”
“I’m not saying history treated her well. But, my God! She was a princess! She should have controlled herself. Worse things happen and women learn not to lose their cool. What kind of world would this be if every woman lashed out against anyone who treated her unfairly?”
“Maybe it would be a better place than the one we live in now,” I said, thinking of my mother and feeling a burning sensation in my chest.
Águeda’s only response was to stand up and start clearing the table. I tried to get her to let me help, but she absolutely refused.
“Go on, you two. Off to the library.”
“We’ll have coffee there,” Manuel said. “In a few hours I must take you back to school.”
I WENT TO THE BATHROOM AND THEN TO THE LIBRARY. AS I WENT in, I saw a black dress lying on the sofa. A bitter, vaguely chocolaty, taste filled my mouth.
“Oh no, Manuel, please don’t make me put that on,” I said, touching the cloth (quality wool, tightly woven, soft and lustrous to the touch). It had a high neckline, with white lace pleats down the front, and puffy angel sleeves that tapered out at the forearm.
“You’ll be very comfortable. Don’t forget: you accepted my conditions. Go on. For me. Please. Be a good girl.”
No point in arguing. I got undressed. Manuel, slightly nervous, hurriedly tied the ribbons at the back. It was so strange his insistance with this gown ritual. I pulled my hair back. The smell of wool reminded me of the nuns. It wasn’t a new dress. You could smell the mothballs.
YOU WISHED THE RAGE YOU FELT WHEN YOU BID PHILIPPE FAREWELL had lasted a little longer, Juana. That way your first night without him would have been less painful, lying there on the cold sheets of the royal bedroom in the Archbishop’s Palace in Alcalá de Henares. You thought of the high hopes you’d had on your way there: the court and palace that your imagination filled with faces and furniture and where you caught a glimpse of yourself living with your husband and children on Spanish soil; you recalled how anxious you were, how badly you longed for that reunion. Desolate now, you regret each and every one of your spiteful words.
ONE BY ONE, I WEIGHED THEM, REPEATED THEM. I IMAGINED THE disastrous effect they would have had, piercing their way into Philippe’s consciousness with their spiked barbs. He hates me now, I thought, and he shall never forgive me. Lying distraught in the darkness, I recited out loud each sentence I recalled having pronounced. I wanted to trap the sound of my voice and wring it out, crush it, stamp on it, like a child trapping bugs and then squashing them. I could see Philippe riding through the arid Castilian sierra, lashed by the wind, which would carry the echo of my insults to him once more. I did not sleep until I had taken a vow of silence as penitence for my impulsiveness. I intended to keep quiet for a good, long time.
The Scroll of Seduction Page 18
