The Scroll of Seduction

by Gioconda Belli

  My stratagem not was based on any calm, rational decision, but in my desperation it was the only alternative I could see. It was June 27. The day was hot, but lightly breezy. Wildflowers lined the trails where our horses trotted. The moment we reached wide open fields, I rearranged myself on the saddle and spurred my horse on, taking off at a gallop. What joy I felt, at that wild, unbridled ride! My face, my breasts, my arms cleaved the wind like billowing sails. The countryside, and the scent of oak and pine, were the very essence of life, whipping my lungs, so thirsty for open spaces. Soon the trampling hooves of my companions’ horses died away as they gave up their frustrated pursuit while I rode on at a steady gallop among the trees, searching for my objective: the meeting place. My heart pounded, boring a hole in my chest.

  But clearly, I was too late. It had all ended hours ago. The chapel in the woods was deserted. Trampled grass showed signs of the many horses that had passed. I circled the place, shouted my father’s name–more to vent my anger than for any practical purpose–and finally, after I regained my composure, I contemplated the consequences of my escape: the punishment Philippe would impose on me for my audacity. I was riding at a canter when I passed through a small village and, without stopping to think, I dismounted, tethered my horse to a fence, and knocked on a door. The woman who opened it was a simple, friendly peasant with a gaunt face and strong hands. She told me she was a baker. I am your queen, Queen Juana, I said in turn. Kindly let me in, give me a glass of water to drink, a chair to sit on, and shelter. Taken by surprise, she looked at me but silently did all I asked of her and sat with me, neither believing my words nor daring to contradict me. She had hardly begun the tale of her woeful existence when we heard the thundering of horse guards and Philippe himself stepped into the shack, his cheeks flushed, astounded. Probably because he was still savoring his triumph against Ferdinand, he chose to address me ironically, trusting that his tone would humiliate me more than a violent tirade.

  He gave me a succint version of the terms of the treaty by which he and my father had decided to split the regency of the kingdom. He said they both agreed that it should be they and not I who dealt with matters of State. Even Cardinal Cisneros, he added, had expressed his assent and offered his loyalty, because after my inappropriate behavior in Alcalá de Henares and Medina del Campo, he was convinced that I was a threat to the interests of the crown. Seeing my chagrin at his words, Philippe put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to accompany him. I shook him off in rejection. If he wanted me to return to the palace, he’d need to send for my father. I was not leaving otherwise.

  I kept insisting to myself that Philippe had deceived my father into signing the treaty. If he could see me, I thought, he would realize I was not mad. I ordered Philippe to remove the soldiers from the baker’s house. Out of respect to my hostess, no one but Philippe or my father would be allowed to enter her home, I commanded.

  Poverty, no doubt, has a calming effect. Too many colors, too much luxury, affect one’s sobriety and incite pride. It might have been the atmosphere that brought a change in Philippe’s demeanor, for he began to speak to me as if he were the tender father of an unruly child. Please, Juana, why take refuge in these games, these extremes, when everything can be resolved without discord? The woman stared at us, eyes like a pendulum, moving back and forth between the two of us, understanding everything. But my ears were already deaf to Philippe’s endearments, and though he spoke at length, nothing he said convinced me.

  That week, the shack where I stayed with Soledad–that was my unwilling hostess’s name–became a queen’s refuge. The lowly village fed me pigeon and rabbit and other dishes. After a few days, news arrived that while Philippe was busy announcing his victory with great fanfare to all and sundry, my incorrigible, shrewd father had disauthorized the treaty the moment he reached the border of Aragon, proclaiming throughout all of Castile that Philippe had forced him to sign under duress, with the presence of his army. His statement declared that he would never consent to limit my freedom nor would he deny the rights that were lawfully mine.

  The court broke camp and left Benavente Castle. Realizing that there was no longer any point in waiting, I said good-bye to Soledad and mounted my horse to go and join the cavalcade on its way to Valladolid.

  As soon as Philippe discovered I had joined the march, he rode back to find me and talk to me. We rode together for a while. It did not cease to amaze me how free he felt to ill treat me and impose his will. He behaved as if I were a wild mare he had been asked to break. He informed me that we’d stop in the small town of Mucientes, since my most recent escapade had convinced him that there was no reason to wait any longer before having the Cortes declare me unfit to rule and grant him authority to issue commands meant to bring stability throughout the kingdom. For my own good, his and our children, I should accept that this was the course most advantageous to all. The following day, the procurators from all the Castilian towns would arrive in Mucientes and convene the Cortes, he said. I must promise him that I would maintain my composure and not do anything that might once again shame either him or me. Looking contrite, he spoke of the anguish I caused him when I behaved without good sense and sound judgment. Of course he knew, he conceded, that when I was well, no woman in the land was as charming or as clever, but governing a kingdom was men’s work. I should not be led to believe that cases like my mother’s were anything but exceptional, and what was more, even a great woman such as herself always had a strong man by her side. So why should I, who had not one but two men to govern, not gladly relinquish my power and allow them to see to matters of State? The way I saw it, I told him, neither he nor my father was capable of seeing eye to eye. What was more, as the dutiful wife and daughter that I was, I would be willing to accept their joint rule, but I could not simply sit back and allow them to declare me mad and unfit to rule and treat me as a witless fool in order to achieve whatever they wanted. Besides, he should know, I continued, that I was now carrying his sixth child. I could not but be saddened knowing that he was so petty with the very person whose good labors had provided him with descendants. He looked remorseful for a brief moment, but then turned back to me and repeated his order that I behave sensibly and not get in his way.

  That said, he spurred his horse and trotted back up to where Fuensalida rode.

  As I watched him ride off, bottling up my spite, I thought that indeed I would act sensibly, even if we both understood this to mean different things.

  At the church in Mucientes everything was readied for the meeting of the Cortes the day after our arrival. I had only one lady at my service, Doña María de Ulloa. She was a woman of few words, and was getting on in years. But despite my initial misgivings, her considerate opinions, soft demeanor, and perseverance managed to wear down the hostility I felt for the attendants Philippe assigned to me.

  For my appearance before the Cortes, Doña María helped me slip into one of the magnificent lace-and-brocade gowns from the queen’s trousseau that I had brought to Castile, and she braided my long black hair and then tied it up around my head with a diamond-and-pearl diadem. Looking majestic was important, given my intentions, and when I saw myself in the mirror, I was satisfied at the regality and elegance of my appearance.

  I made my entrance into the salon on Philippe’s arm. As I walked, I was reminded of the way my mother carried herself and of Beatriz Galindo’s advice: princesses must always carry themselves tall, their backs straight. The procurators rose in unison. As I walked to take my place, I was pleased to see among them the Admiral of Castile, my old friend Fadrique Enríquez, and my mother’s loyal knight, Pedro López de Padilla.

  The session opened with salutations, followed by much hemming and hawing during which, finally, the terms of the Villafáfila Treaty were raised. Philippe and his advisor De Vere addressed the audience to convey to them how both my father and my husband had come to the conclusion that it was in the kingdom’s greatest interest for me to delegate the governing of Castile to
my husband, given that my unstable health and lack of interest in matters of State would seriously jeopardize my duties and occupations as queen. It was then that the office of the court was to accept Philippe as proprietary king, instead of king consort, so that the swearing in ceremony could take place in Valladolid.

  I listened to the arguments exchanged between one side and the other regarding my aptitudes to rule and the convenience of the proposal.

  It infuriated me to see so many men in that room sitting around, deciding my fate, as if some natural order had invested them with more wisdom than mine or that of my own mother when she elected to name me her heir. I think they would have yielded to Philippe’s plan had I not become so incensed listening to them that I lost my patience and decided to put an end to their convoluted debate. Rising amid their stunned expressions and the sounds of their perplexity I made my way to the center of the chamber and stared at the faces around the room. Then I raised my voice and asked them whether or not they knew me to be Juana, the legitimate daughter of Queen Isabella the Catholic. Look at me well, I demanded. Was I not the the very woman whom the great Isabella had invested as her sole heir?

  They reacted as if they had been suddenly jolted out of their sleep.

  “Yes, we do know who you are, we recognize you, Your Majesty,” the president of the Cortes said, bowing.

  “Well, given that you do recognize me,” I said, “I am ordering you to move the Cortes to Toledo. There you will swear your loyalty to this queen of Castile and I will swear to defend your laws and your rights. Are you, perchance, unaware that my father disaffirmed the treaty of Villafáfila that his lord the archduke refers to?”

  A frenzied debate broke out, with people shouting from one side of the hall to the other. Some said that since I had avowed my desire to be recognized, they were obliged to lend me their ears and discover the truth about what they had been told of my state of mind. Others took Philippe’s side, and still others sided with me, recalling that my father had not only refrained from ratifying the treaty of Villafáfila but had actually renounced it, given that it was signed under duress. Finally, they requested a private audience with me, and I accepted immediately. I announced that I would await them in the monastery cloister.

  Having said that, I withdrew. I felt Philippe’s eyes glower furiously at my back.

  A few hours later, the procurators arrived before me, very humble and respectful. Some of their questions were logical and indispensable. For instance, would I govern alone or assign some special role to my husband? Others were absurd, uttered out of who knows what sense of vanity, such as whether I was prepared to dress in the Spanish manner and employ more ladies in my household. I laughed at those concerns, calming their fears about the style of my gowns, and telling them that the number of ladies in my waiting and who they were was a matter for me to decide and bore no relation to the council. I stressed my desire to have my father and not Philippe govern with me until my son Charles had reached the age of majority.

  They left apparently satisfied, but Philippe and Cardinal Cisneros went on the offensive the next day, insisting on my incapacity, telling them that the full moon had upset me, that little could they know of my mental state in such a short time. And thus the Cortes designated the admiral of Castile to hold a long interview with me to asess the well-being of my mind.

  Ten hours I spent with Don Fadrique. Ten very pleasant hours, I must say, during which he behaved as a father and listened with a pained face to my recounting of the affronts I had been subjected to. He would do everything in his power, he said, but I had to realize that I was swimming in shark-infested waters, and that they would gnaw me with their teeth if I did not advance carefully every step of the way.

  Before the others, Don Fadrique dismissed the notion of my inability to rule. He said it was a fallacy to affirm that I was not in my right mind.

  I relinquished my demand that the Cortes be moved to Toledo, and finally, the procurators decided to proceed with the coronation ceremony in Valladolid.

  I had gotten them to agree to proclaim me their queen.

  Philippe and I paraded down the streets of the city on horseback while the crowds gathered everywhere to cheer us. The royal standard of Castile and Leon flew before me, just me: Juana of Castile.

  And once again I was magnanimous, or a vassal to my unremitting love: during the ceremony in which they anointed us monarchs, I agreed to share my title as proprietary ruler with Philippe, as the “legitimate husband of the legitimate queen.” And thus he escaped the fate of my father, whose mandate had come from his wife’s authority.

  Despite this, Philippe still made constant efforts to displace me. He named Cardinal Cisneros–who was convinced that I was an obstacle in the way of Spain’s glory–as his chief advisor. Not a day went by without Cisneros and Gómez de Fuensalida conspiring to entangle me in their nets and leave me out of their game. They intercepted a letter I wrote my father, requesting his presence beside me. They held meetings with Don Pedro López de Padilla, inciting him to withdraw his support. Then they pressured Philippe to convince me we needed to go to Segovia, since the Marquise of Moya had taken the Alcazar and refused to surrender it to anyone but me. They were desperate. The nobles whose loyalty they needed were daily threatening to switch camps and join my side.

  The trip to Segovia was motivated by Philippe’s and his advisors’ desire to take me to the Alcazar–a fortress–and confine me there so I could no longer thwart their plans. Those were terrible days for me. My authority was accepted or rejected at will. I was the apple of discord, full of worms, surrounded by hostile faces, fearing for my freedom, for my life, not knowing which friends might suddenly turn coat and become my enemies. Depending on his mood, Philippe treated me either as a helpless, deranged child, or a sworn enemy.

  Doña María was my only solace, though I was afraid to trust even her completely. At night I could scarcely sleep, for fear of waking to find myself under lock and key. During our rushed journey to Segovia I managed to sleep only a few hours, when we were camped out under the stars.

  In the town of Cogeces del Monte, which we reached one afternoon, appropriate measures were taken so that we might be housed in the monastery of La Armedilla. But something in Philippe’s demeanor, in the obsequious yet uptight manner in which he praised the preparations under way to ensure my comfort at the Jerónimos convent, led me to suspect that, like a cat, he was preparing to pounce. I would have to be taken for a madwoman again, I thought, but no one was going to make me spend the night within those walls. I smiled beatifically, saying that while the court and soldiers settled in, I would go for a short ride on my horse. A bit of exercise would suit my nerves.

  The steppelike landscape surrounding the town was broken here and there by monumental rock formations. Pine forests grew in ravines alongside small streams. Philippe assigned one of his German soldiers to escort me. He was a fierce, toothless man who looked like a barbarian, but beneath his harsh appearance lay a discrete gentleman who kept a courteous distance while I rode undisturbed along paths leading up to the rocky promontories. I knew just how trying and long the night would be, and after galloping for a while, I stopped by the brook that brought water to the village and, still on my saddle, watched the sunset. As it began to grow dark, the soldier said that we should return to the monastery, but I told him to go back on his own, because I planned to spend the night there. That disconcerted him. We were far enough for him not to dare to leave me alone while he went to give notice. They would send a search party for us, I said, he need not worry. It saddened me to see his rude face transformed into that of a frightened child. Because I spoke his language he bonded with me and showed me respect. I engaged him in conversation and he told me about his wife and his fields of barley in Bavaria, stopping himself every so often to beg me to return with him to the monastery.

  As I had guessed, the sound of galloping hooves was soon upon us, and Philippe’s messengers arrived shortly to order us back to La
Armedilla. Instead, I got off my horse, tethered it to a tree, and sat down on a fallen trunk to watch the stars while my soldier paced nervously, not knowing how to react.

  It was a repeat of the situation with the baker in Villafáfila, except this time in the open air. I did not know how many nights I would have to refuse to enter the monastery, but it was summertime and the cool pine forest was pleasant.

  However, fortune looked kindly upon me this time. Early that morning, news arrived from Segovia that Gómez de Fuensalida had managed to gain entry to the Alcazar, canceling the motive for our trip there. Philippe sent word that we would continue on toward Burgos, to the palace of the constable of Castile, married to Juana of Aragon, my father’s stepdaughter. I went back and joined the march.

  As a consequence of the night I spent outdoors, I fell ill. We were forced to stop in Tudela del Duero to wait my recovery, as everyone feared my pregnancy might be at risk were we to continue the trip.