The Scroll of Seduction

by Gioconda Belli

  It was not a few days but two entire months that I was forced to wait. My initial agitation gave way to calm acceptance. I realized that I was exhausted. I could not tell night from day, sleep from wakefulness. I decided to rest and recover, let myself be pampered. The Moorish slaves I had brought with me initiated me in their secret ways. They gave me massages with aromatic oils. They washed and braided my hair. They decorated my hands and feet with henna. And I let them; I surrendered myself to them and accepted all of their indulgences gladly. I rested, I read, and I ate until May arrived and the storms on the Cantabrian Coast abated.

  PHILIPPE AND HIS RETINUE AWAITED ME IN BLANKENBURG. AS WE entered the harbor, the surging gray waves lost their force and the boat swayed gently once more. It was one of those rare, radiant Flanders days. Anyone would have thought that our ship had brought the Spanish sun with it. From the deck, I could see the skyline of the Flemish city: its pointy roofs, the triangular facades of its houses, their uneven outlines dotted with gargoyles, the familiar profile of the church and castles lining the water’s edge. Tiny figures crowded around the fortress and on the pier where we would dock. I was overcome with joy at the idea of seeing Philippe and my children, but also anxious and worried that during our long separation an insurmountable distance might have arisen between us. It had been such a long time; I could not assume everything would be the same. I knew already that for me, things had changed. I gathered my blue skirts around me. While we’d sailed, my spirits had soared free and light; now that the voyage was nearly over, doubts crept in, and I recalled my first years in the Low Countries, lonely and beleaguered. Gradually, I was able to make out the rubicund faces of pages and courtiers, their sumptuous attire, their decorated horses and the royal insignia of the Hapsburg standard. My spirits flagged and I felt as if my feet had turned to lead, rooting me to the spot like a statue. I realized I would no longer speak Spanish. I glanced at Madame de Hallewin, her eyes sparkling and alert as she made out the faces of her friends and the personages who had come to meet us. Until a few hours ago she had been my confidante and loyal servant, but now the Flemish air was blowing on her, sweeping her off.

  Philippe’s eyes were like a bridge laid down for me. I smiled and sunk into his look and then his arms, as the court applauded and trumpets sounded. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. My Philippe, if possible, was even more handsome. Time had defined his features, and his body was strong and mature. He returned my affection discretely, begging me with his eyes to wait until we were alone. His complicit look was like a key that slipped into my lock in an instant, awakening a desire that time had sent to sleep. My children were there: Leonor, with her golden curls, dressed like a little woman, and smiling from cheek to cheek; Isabel, who hardly recognized me and gazed on with more curiosity than anything; and Charles, wearing formal dress with a ruff and hiding in his fathers cape, his suspicious eyes doubtful that I could have anything to do with his childhood.

  I was happy to see Jean de Berghes, Gustave de Chamois, Ana de Viamonte, and the palace attendants once more. After greetings and salutations we boarded the carriages and began our journey to Brussels. Along the way, we stopped in several cities and small towns where banquets and tournaments were held in my honor, and everyone came to pay us homage. But even amid the celebratory atmosphere, I perceived a new distrustfulness. Would they have to submit to Spain? Would they be orphaned when it came time for us to ascend to the Spanish throne?

  When I was alone with Philippe I bemoaned feeling more foreign now than I had before. I deplored the fact that the nobility slyly insinuated that I showed more interest in the realms I would inherit than in Flanders. Philippe glowered unsympathetically and criticized what he claimed was my tendency to speculate. “You’re imagining things,” he’d say. That phrase became a litany on our trip to Brussels.

  In the bedroom I noticed his lovemaking had taken on a new ferocity that at first I attributed to the pent-up desire he’d accumulated during our separation, and that I reciprocated in kind. For the first time, though, no matter how we groped and bit and kneaded each other’s bodies, carnal love did not sate us and instead left us irritable and bad-tempered.

  In spite of Philippe’s assurances to the contrary, I felt that the gulf that separated me from his court and his country had never been so wide or so deep. After my first days back in Coudenberg Palace, once the relief of being back in a routine I feared lost had subsided, I began to have the distinct feeling that I was treading among upturned knives. The moment I left a room, the atmosphere transformed behind me. My words, shuffled and redealt like cards, were attributed new meanings. I trusted no one, and no one trusted me.

  The tension in my head was like a vise around my skull. I awoke with my jaw and temples sore. My headaches would blind me for hours, or force me into bed, nauseated. Concerned about my health, the governor of my household appeared one day with Theodore Leyden, an eminent physician of Turkish origin who had come to treat me.

  If I had told Philippe, surely he would have dismissed my opinion as the result of a vivid imagination, but I am certain that the moment that man walked into my chambers the air turned clear, as if rather than a human being, a brisk, country morning had come in. Leyden was a man of medium height and slender, delicate build, with beautiful, deep eyes. His face was framed by the dark fuzz of a very well groomed beard, a fine mustache, and a perfectly brushed and cut curly head of hair. At first his slender hands and long fingernails seemed distasteful to me. He wore a gold earring in one ear and spoke in a soft, hypnotic voice. He treated me with respect, but without distance. And it seemed that, just by gazing into my eyes, he could discern everything that was going on in my heart. There was nothing lustful or self-interested in his look, rather it seemed he possesed the rare ability to forget himself. Perhaps that is why his visits and cures not only eased my physical aches and pains but also had a calming effect on the turbulent waters that often flooded my thoughts.

  Many a night I heard little Ferdinand crying out to me in my sleep. I would awaken and search for him beside me. Unable to go back to sleep I would lie in bed, imagining him in any of my parents’ castles, left to the care of indulgent servants. I had pretended to Philippe that it had seemed a good idea to me to leave my son in Spain. I did not want to fodder the discord by relating to him the circumstances under which I’d departed. This, however, earned me his reproach for having “abandoned” our son. In response I told him that he had been the one who’d abandoned both of us there. And anyway, I argued, his sister Marguerite was raising our older children. At least Ferdinand would learn Castilian Spanish.

  THE ABSENCE OF MY YOUNGEST SON, THE FROSTINESS OF THE FLEMISH court, the glances and giggles that preceded and followed me throughout the palace, Philippe’s violent, harsh passion free of tender words, the memory of my mother’s hard, affronted eyes, the want of Beatriz and her loyalty, were all like the bars of a prison, locking me up in dark solitude without even a tiny glimmer of light. The only thing that saved me was Theodore and the teas he prepared for me from long, fluted flowers and other fragrant herbs. Under the spell of his magic potions, my sorrows lost their sharp edges, and happy memories seemed closer, within reach. I saw my brother Juan, played with my mule Sarita in the palace stables, smelled the sweet, milky scent of my wet nurse’s breast. My children returned to their early childhood, when they still looked at me as a continuation of themselves, not like now, when they refused me their love for fear I would leave them once more.

  After these fantasies, which would sometimes last all day long, I would get up for dinner in the palace salons, calm and unconcerned as I received the court, indifferent to their attitudes, the sole denizen of a mist-enshrouded island who looks on from the distance at an inconsequential theater filled with trivial players. How I would have liked to stay there forever, like a bird soaring above the crows! But the crows would not stop their squawking, and one day Pietro Martire d’Anghiera came to see me, to give me some writings from my friend Eras
mus of Rotterdam, and to whisper in my ear that it was time I heard what was being said at court: Philippe, who until that time had been discrete in satisfying his needs with the occasional, harmless courtesan, had now made the grave mistake of becoming emotionally involved with one of the ladies who was now in my service. Anghiera felt this was unacceptable. Had Busleyden been alive, these things would never have happened, he said; he had known how to curb Philippe’s rash impulses. Now I would have to be the one to put an end to it, to avoid having his infidelity strip me of any remaining vestige of the respect my subjects still had for me. It was up to me to teach the Flemish that Spaniards would not put up with their insidious vulgarity.

  I have never been stung by a scorpion, but I had no doubt that its poison would feel like those words as they sunk into my body. Rather than tears, I felt shards of glass well up in my eyes, and my head throbbed like an enormous heart trapped in a tiny wooden box. I lost all notion of my physicality. I became a knot of rage, an idea, with no arms or legs. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move for quite some time. And then it began to come clear, the strange atmosphere I’d been feeling ever since I’d returned. I knew who the woman Anghiera was talking about was. A redhead with milky, white skin and freckles on her face and breasts and back, and a lovely face, feline yet pixie. What did Philippe see in her? What did she have that I did not have more of? Was I not rounder, fuller? How could my husband betray me with someone like her? I thought of my father’s children, which my mother had allowed to be looked after in the palace, my half-brothers and sisters whose origin was one of the mysteries of my childhood. It sickened me, to think of some redheaded child having any of the same features as my children.

  Pietro Martire left after counseling that I exhibit maturity and restraint. I called for Theodore and hid nothing from him. I was convinced this had happened because of my absence, I said. When I was in Spain, my intuition had warned me that anything flammable would go up in flames regardless of the presence or absence of love, and that insisting on Philippe’s chastity would be like asking wood not to burn when it was set alight. Of course I would have wanted his passion to burn only for me, but for men, the memory of love does not warm cold, winter nights.

  A wise interpretation, he told me. And therefore I must not be afraid. While I restlessly paced the antechamber of my bedroom, Theodore had the look of someone who is all-understanding and the knowing smile of one who accepted evil as an inevitable part of existence. In my mind’s eye, I could just see the woman beneath the pointed ogival window, comfortably arranged on the orange cushions of the bench that ran the circumference of the tower wall. In that very room she sat among the ladies of the court, including me, to sew, tell stories, and gossip in the afternoons. Theodore suggested I exhibit the maturity and benevolence of a queen. I should speak to Philippe, be understanding, and tell him that I would forgive him if he promised to end his dallying.

  And that is precisely what I did, that very night. I do not know how I found the strength to display such self-control, given that I felt I was floating above the floor rather than held up by it, and the walls and furniture wobbled before me like melting wax. Philippe denied nothing. He watched me pace before the bed and stared calmly, arms crossed behind his head with his fingers interlaced. I was petrified and intimidated, and I babbled uncontrollably, so much so that as I railed on and left him no room to explain himself, I justified his behavior and offered reconciliation. By the time I climbed into bed, all he had to do was concur with my rationale, praise my intuition, and be amazed at how well I knew him. He insisted that he loved me no end, that he could not stand being alone. We’d never be apart again, he said. I was the only woman he wanted. His desire for me was like a disease, consuming him from the inside out.

  AT THE DENIAS’ MANSION IN THE SALAMANCA DISTRICT OF MADRID that night, Manuel talked about jealousy. I lay naked, facedown on the bed, and he ran his fingers lightly up and down my back, provoking earthlike tremors on my skin. I imagined Juana’s anguish had been similar to my mother’s: a sense of failure, of frailty, of ineptitude, a powerlessness that, according to Manuel, made jealousy resemble death. Love blurs the boundaries of one’s identity, he said. A person in love allows the lover to enter not only his or her physical being but also the sheltered inner space of the psyche. The enclosure of the self opens up, and through that aperture destruction can also find its way. Love is like a Trojan horse, a thing of beauty; but if there is betrayal, one can wake up any day with the enemy already inside the city gates.

  “WHEN HER FEARS ABOUT PHILIPPE’S INFIDELITY WERE PROVEN AND she was faced with the certainty of it, all Juana’s good intentions flew out the window. She couldn’t keep her cool. She had to go out into the night to prowl, to stalk her love; she had to stab holes in the wooden horse’s belly over and over again, to ensure that there were no soldiers hiding there. Your mother did the same.

  “Don’t put on any clothes. There’s no need for the gown. For this part of the story, you’re better off nude. Vulnerable. Like Juana.”

  SINCE CONFESSING HIS GUILT, PHILIPPE MADE AN EFFORT TO BEHAVE like a loving husband and gave me beautiful gifts: an exquisite, red velvet-covered Grimaldi breviary, illustrated by the Master of the David Scenes. The miniatures were beautiful. I appeared in several of them, and others illustrated figures holding our coats of arms. Philippe’s read “Who will dare?” and mine responded “I will dare.” We had thought of that motto when we got married, that he and I would dare as much to love each other as to take on anything fate dealt us.

  Fate might have dealt me another life if I had forgotten my husband’s infidelity the way my mother had forgotten my father’s dalliances. But I had no desire to be queen, and at that moment I loved the freedom of not having to be one, thinking that my mother still had a long life ahead of her. Theodore still tried to calm me with his aromatic teas, but I hardly stopped to taste them now. I had no idea whether or not Philippe was keeping his promise of not dwelling on the redhead, but I did nothing but think of her. I reinitiated the evening sewing sessions with my ladies solely to watch her, to denude her with my eyes. She was very fair and had light, downy peach fuzz covering her skin; caught in the sun, it shone like a radiant halo. She favored brown and blue gowns. Her hair was truly beautiful, thick, curly, and shiny as burnished copper as it spilled down her back. I learned through gossip and breaches of confidence that it was this fiery mane that had first driven Philippe wild. I could not bear to look at her without burning with the desire to rip it from her head, lock by lock, imagining the lurid details of my torture as I sat primly and embroidered cross-stitch. She avoided my eyes, concentrating on her needles, and when she thought I was distracted, she’d laugh with the others, leaving me distraught at her irreverence. She would have no cause to laugh that way–nor my ladies any cause to treat her with deference–I thought, if she felt defeated or had truly learned her lesson. I pricked my fingers trying to interpret her glances and gestures, keeping watch over her and not my knitting. One afternoon while we were embroidering and I, concentrated on my work, eavesdropped on their conversation about the never-ending battle for control of Naples, I caught a glimpse of the redhead out of the corner of my eye, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she showed the others something concealed in her bodice. Their excitement might have gone overlooked by anyone who was not waiting for it, but it did not slip me by.

  Without giving myself even a moment to contemplate my actions rationally, I sat up straight as a board and then leaped out of my chair. I dove onto Philippe’s lover amid the crash of furniture and swishing silk. She jumped back, attempting to cover her chest with her hands, but she was no contest for me. Like a hawk swooping down on its prey, claws extended, I threw her to the ground, my knees on her rib cage. The sound of ripping cloth could be heard over the other ladies’ cries. I shoved my hand into her bodice and wrenched out the letter she’d tucked in there. The redhead whimpered and covered her face as I tried to scratch her. Madame de Hallewin gr
abbed hold of me by the shoulders and pulled me away, with the help of Ana de Viamonte and a few other women. Brandishing the note in my hand, I regained enough control to order them all to leave me be. I threw them all out, even my poor Madame de Hallewin and the Spanish ladies, shrieking as loud as I could in order to scare them.

  Slamming and locking the door, I leaned up against the wood and then slid down to the floor, closing my eyes and trying to stop panting. I held the note to my face, in search of Philippe’s scent, praying to God that it not be so. Please, God, no. Please. But then I began to cry, because my intuition knew better what I was about to confirm.

  I read. “Madame: Nothing has changed. After the vespers bells, in the library. Yours. Philippe.”

  “Who will dare? I will dare.” My mind was set on pronouncing the ensign of my marriage over and over again. My thoughts could only repeat those words.

  After a short while I stood. I made my way to the woven sewing basket, took out three pairs of Toledan steel scissors and lay them on the table. Then I walked into my sleeping chambers. I splashed water on my face, fixed my hair and looked in the mirror. I was beautiful too. My cheeks were flushed. I gulped down several glasses of wine from Philippe’s decanter. Then I waited a prudent time before unlocking the door and ordering my guards to call all the ladies in my court immediately. All of them.

  They walked in one by one with their heads bowed, the redhead hiding at the center of the group. They gathered very close together beside the table in the middle of the room where I awaited them. Madame de Hallewin approached me with the clear intention of exchanging a few words out of earshot of the others. Raising a hand, I stopped her in her tracks. My compatriots gazed at me in fear and solidarity both. I smiled at them, calm, intuiting the curiosity and fear that overwhelmed them. I bade Blanca and María, my Spanish attendants, to sit the redhead in the chair beside the table. They exchanged glances, and I repeated my order, louder. The redhead began to cry. Madame de Hallewin interrupted. “What will you do, my lady?” But they sat her down. I approached and tied her hands behind her back with some colored ribbon I had left atop the table. The women held their breath, fascinated, as if they were about to bear witness to an execution and could not, would not, do anything to stop it. Slowly, parsimoniously, I unclipped the redhead’s hair, letting it fall loosely around her shoulders. I stroked it. It was soft, silky. I thought of Philippe’s hands. Then I took the scissors and slowly, deliberately, began to cut it, possessed by the snipping noise the scissors made, hearing it ring louder than the women’s exclamations, the victim’s sobs. I couldn’t stop. I cut and cut, faster and faster. Who will dare? I will dare. And the locks fluttered to the floor. Who will dare? I will dare. And there was more snipping, more sobbing, until I saw her translucent scalp and then stood back to see what she had become: an ugly boy, her face all red, her swollen nose dripping snot onto her skirt.