The Scroll of Seduction

by Gioconda Belli

  To the left of the village, behind the walls, I saw the Church of San Antolín and the exterior corridor linking it to the palace, with the charming, conical-roofed tower at the end of it. From there most certainly one would be able to see the wide river, slithering like a green snake among the tall reeds on the banks. Storks rested atop other towers in the distance; their nests looked like gray balls of yarn balanced precariously on the tall domes and roofs of the village.

  Finally we reached the palace, followed by the watchful eyes of the villagers who came out to get a look of the strange procession that, in more ways than one, would alter their lives. I waved left and right, fully awake now, and frightened. I was beginning to realize that I could expect nothing good from such a hurried relocation. The Palace of Tordesillas was medium size. When it was first built by Enrique III, it must have been comfortable and majestic, but since that time it had fallen into disuse and was almost entirely unfurnished. The night Philippe and I spent there it had seemed sad and neglected to me: salons and ballrooms surrendered to age and decrepitude. It never occurred to me that this place would be my final destination. I thought it was just another move. I remembered my father mentioning that the tiny village of Arcos, where I had lived for eighteen months, could no longer accommodate the court.

  Our procession went first to the Convent of Santa Clara to deposit Philippe’s body in the chapel. The sisters had obviously been informed of our arrival, because the prioress was waiting for us and the cloistered nuns could be seen behind the trellis where they heard mass. Once inside the central nave of the church, I ordered that every candle be lit and stayed there for quite some time, keeping vigil over my loved one. Catalina and Ferdinand dozed beside me, sprawled out on the chapel benches. “Wait here,” my father said, leaving me in the care of Doña María de Ulloa. A deep fatigue had taken hold of my bones. I figured that having Ferdinand back had released me of the anguish and rage I had carried within for so many months. My body needed to rest. With no strength left, I submitted to whatever was to come. As long as I had my children by my side, anyplace would do. Maybe Tordesillas, near Valladolid, was actually a good place to set up residence. While prayers for the dead were being said for Philippe, while the nuns sang the Dies Irae, I drifted off to sleep. I foresaw long, monotonous days in Tordesillas, unaware that this would be my final resting place, the last stop in my pilgrimage both through Spain and through life.

  My father departed, leaving me settled down in the palace. It wasn’t long before I realized I was being held prisoner. At first I had been occupied furnishing the palace to make it more inviting, hanging tapestries on the walls to make it warmer. I don’t recall exactly when it was that I noticed that my maids, Anastasia, María, and Cornelia, were restless, talking among themselves in whispers and exchanging sorry looks. I called them over to inquire the reason for their distress. Teary eyed, Cornelia confided that she had overheard a conversation between two members of the Espinosa Royal Mounted guards, who according to her, were commenting that they had received orders from Mosen Luis Ferrer–the palace governor designated by my father–to prevent me by any means from going out of the palace. If I wanted to go to church, I should use the palace corridor that led to San Antolín; if I chose to visit Philippe’s body, they were to accompany me and form a human wall around me so that no one could see or approach me. Because, he had told them: “The queen is mad and no one must know about it.” Cornelia finished, weeping and distraught at having to bring me such news.

  I ordered my maidens and Doña María to get me ready and prepare themselves to go out for a stroll in the village. But then, that small man, Mosen Luis Ferrer, came before me. He was short, his chest puffed up with the effort of keeping himself erect, hoping, I guess, to compensate with his posture what he lacked in stature. His round head was nearly bald, but he had a small, well-cared-for beard, many rings on his fingers, and impeccable clothes. Though I had seen him often, I had rarely addressed him. His beady eyes sparkled defiantly when he told me that under express orders of King Ferdinand, my father, I was not to leave the palace, as the plague was spreading through neighboring villages.

  “And how is it that no one but yourself has mentioned the plague?”

  “Your Majesty, your illustrious father thought it wise not to divulge the information so that you might not worry and panic not spread through court, but I tell you that the palace is surrounded by the plague like an island by water. For your own good, you must stay within its walls.”

  I suspected it was simply a stratagem to keep me isolated. And indeed it was. The plague came around every time I attempted to get out. At times I thought I had no option but to come to terms with that confinement: I read, meditated, took care of my children. Other times I would be seized by despair and lash out like a caged animal, pouncing against everybody, including myself. I would throw myself on the floor and refuse to eat, to bathe. My utter impotence would keep me crying day and night and the hatred for my father overwhelmed me, obscuring my reason and gnawing my entrails.

  But it wasn’t just my freedom they disposed of. My son Ferdinand was taken from me too, soon after that. I had no way of knowing to what extremes their hostility and desire to silence me would take them. Like a cave, the palace was populated by equivocal shadows. A new, childlike fear swept over me, keeping me constantly on edge. I arranged for Catalina to sleep in a room that could only be reached by crossing mine. Nights found me closed up in my quarters with her, fearing she would also be snatched away from me.

  “WHILE IN TORDESILLAS, JUANA WAS BEING THRUST INTO A WEB OF deceits aimed at making her accept a false reality, King Ferdinand unencumbered and holding the reins of both Castile and Aragon applied himself to the conquest of Europe,” said Manuel, bringing me out of my reverie. I threw my head back against the sofa and listened to him, staring at the afternoon light, unable to tear myself away from the image of Juana embracing Catalina, besieged on all sides.

  “A square patch of blue can contain the entire sky” a mad poet from my country once wrote from a cell that had just one small window.

  “After two years of plotting and forging alliances, Ferdinand had consolidated his power in Naples and Castile. His troops marched into Navarre and finally separated it from France, giving him control over the Pyrenees pass.”

  “And he didn’t even go back and visit his daughter?”

  “In 1509, Fernando signed a pact with Maximilian that named him legitimate guardian and governor of Juana’s ‘goods and her person.’ Although the document recognized her as queen, it stripped her of her royal authority by claiming she was unqualified to exercise it. Once his position was guaranteed, Ferdinand came to visit in 1510, accompanied by the constable and admiral of Castile, the Dukes of Medina-Sidonia and of Alba, the Marquis of Denia, archbishop Santiago, and Emperor Maximilian’s guests. He snuck into her chambers because Mosen Luis Ferrer had told him that Juana was going through one of her rebellious stages, refusing to eat, change clothes, or leave her rooms. He wanted everyone to see her in that state, to justify his position as regent. Juana was outraged when she realized what he’d done and insisted that the visitors stay long enough for them to see her behave as the queen she was. She sent for her royal gowns, got changed, and appeared before them again, but the damage was already done. The nobles and ambassadors had seen her ‘weak and disheveled.’ It would be nearly impossible for them to see that her lack of personal hygiene was a form of protest, a way of acting out against the manner in which Ferrer dealt with her. It’s quite well known that he went so far as to punish her physically–what they called ‘giving the lash’–under the pretext that it was the only way to make her eat and thus save her life.”

  “Didn’t Juana have any way to tell someone what was happening?”

  “The whole purpose of her incarceration was to keep her from being able to contact anyone. Four of her ladies-in-waiting, Francisca, Isabel, Violante, and Margarita, were relatives of Ferrer. The rest of her household was loya
l to Ferdinand and his governor. They were, that is, until Ferdinand died. It’s quite revealing that her father would go to such lengths just to isolate a ‘madwoman,’ don’t you think? That he felt the need to constantly restate her incapacity to rule. But the constraints did result in her isolation, which was quite effective. Mosen Luis Ferrer, and later the Marquis of Denia, even refused to allow her to go to the church using the high corridor outside of the palace that led to San Antolín. They feared she might shout from there down to the people going by. Tell me, how would you have broken through such a degree of isolation?”

  “I would write, perhaps; I would keep a record of everything that was happening to me in the hopes of delivering it to someone who would make it public or would use it to set me free. I would remember that under Philippe’s orders, Martín de Moxica wrote a log that my father later used to get the Cortes to cede him rule of the kingdom. I certainly wouldn’t resign myself and do nothing. It was not in Juana’s character to silently tolerate abuse.”

  “You see? I was right,” Manuel cried triumphantly, grinning and looking smug. “You are like her. You and Juana, two young women, centuries apart, are very much alike.”

  AH! THE COUNTLESS HUMILIATIONS I SUFFERED AT THE PALACE IN Tordesillas from the time of my arrival in 1509! It was rage that provided me the strength not to submit. I learned to be alone with myself, to speak only to Catalina and Augustina, my washerwoman. When Mosen Luis Ferrer’s rudeness and cruelty became intolerable, I would infuriate him by refusing to eat. I knew that my father needed me alive to carry out his plans. If I died, his regency was over. The Flemish would seize Castile and Aragon from him, because Germaine’s youth had not granted her the fertility she so envied of me. Ferdinand had not been able to produce the heir he so longed for. The baby born in May lived only a few hours. He even brought his new wife to Tordesillas once, hoping I would reveal to her the secret of my fecundity. I was kind to her, for she was just a child, but I made sure she knew that nothing other than the ardor and zeal of my love had made my womb bear fruit. And what fiery passion could she know, when she was forced to lie with an old man who wheezed and snored? Find yourself a lover, I was tempted to say. Which she did later on. I found out. She had a daughter, Isabel, from my son, Charles.

  Desperate at seeing that my strength did not wane, one fine day Mosen Luis Ferrer dared to do the unthinkable. Six soldiers came and took me from my rooms to the palace cellars, dragging me along like a lunatic. I fought them all the way, kicking and screaming, but finally they ripped off my shift. A hooded man lashed me with a whip. I did not cry as the leather tore through my flesh. I slipped away in my mind, as I often did, recalling the music in my life, the birth of my children, my love for Philippe. My back crackled. I felt as if a pack of wildcats were ripping me to shreds. But I made not a sound. Once I was alone, though, oh how I wept! The image of my mother flashed before me, and I saw her, sobbing also in her queen’s eternity, separated from her children. Not even she, hard as she was, would have wished this upon me. Wretched destiny of ours: strong women feared by men! They had to imprison us, humiliate us, beat us, to mask the terror we inspired in them and feel like kings!

  Those were years of constant rebellion. Years I held on, recording my hardships, years I harbored vengeful dreams that belied my Christian upbringing. At least my rooms overlooked the Duero, and the sight of those waters flowing out to sea soothed my soul. They talked of moving me to another wing of the palace, allegedly to protect me from the cold and the elements, but it was from men, not the forces of nature from which I needed protection. Neither rain, lightning, nor blizzard caused me the sufferings they did. Catalina and I went about in rags. Dressed like the most destitute of my vassals, my little girl ran around in a leather doublet while I wore what looked like a nun’s habit made of coarse wool. But my daughter and I had our own secret world. I told her tales of my life as if it had been what I had wanted it to be. These fantasies amused her. She’d beg me to tell the same stories over and over. I even described the New World for her as if I’d seen it. I spoke of great jungles full of strange foreign trees, populated by flocks of brightly colored birds. I described the bare-breasted Indians and their glittering gold. Mosen Luis Ferrer could never guess how free we were in the confines of my room! A window overlooking the river was enough for us to sail the open seas and to discover worlds that only Catalina and I would ever know.

  My father died on January 23, 1516. I had been in Tordesillas for seven years without seeing a calendar, or counting the weeks or months, because seeing all that time mount up was too distressing. But I recall that day perfectly. I woke to a great ruckus, the whole town congregated in the little plaza beneath my window, clamoring for Mosen Luis Ferrer to be dismissed and punished. Doña Juana, Doña Juana! Anastasia exclaimed joyfully. They’re running him off! I ran to the tower of San Antolín, and there I saw him being led off by a scornful crowd. Someone said that my father had died, but then someone else denied it. I presumed it had to be something serious for people to have dared to go after Ferrer, considering the rumors everybody had heard of how dreadfully he treated Catalina and me, but my confessor assured me that although my father was ill, he was still alive. Four years would go by before I finally found out the truth. That day, I closed my eyes for a moment, suddenly blinded by a surge of tears at the thought that it could be true. Oh, Juana, how easily you cry! I said to myself. I didn’t cry anymore. I felt sheltered by the commoners who had come out in my defense.

  Cisneros, who despised me, was kind enough to name Don Hernán, the Duke of Estrada, as head of my household. He was a handsome older man, Don Hernán, and from the moment he laid eyes on me he never once doubted neither my strength of character, nor the clarity of my thoughts. I could have easily made him my lover. I knew that my eyes, my voice got under his skin. The two of us spoke as I had never before spoken to any man or woman. For two years, we were like Abelard and Héloïse, and my wrath and outrage subsided. But my passion was never rekindled. Strange, how one could come to this, to become a stranger to the pleasures of the body. Now only my mind brought me joy. Neither baths, nor perfumes, nor the feel of satin and velvet could arouse my flesh. My fire had been extinguished, and the carbon of my ashes had hardened into diamond. Sometimes I was saddened to recall the sensations my sex and my breasts had given me, but the clarity of my mind made up for my lack of desire. Seen from my barren outlook the world was like amber in which vestiges of my previous life were frozen. It was a prism allowing me to see the spikes, the multiplicity of human existence, the complexity of the stories we tell one another.

  Don Hernán took pity on my little Catalina and ordered a large window to be opened in her small room. My daughter throws coins down to the children of Tordesillas, who play in the plaza below, so that she can watch them when they return every day. From here, every afternoon, I can hear her arbitrate their games and races and I marvel at the boundless fantasies of her childhood. Of course, Don Hernán could actually let her go out to play, but he’s a man. He fears the others. He is kind, but his kindness doesn’t go that far.

  CHAPTER 25

  A few days after Christmas, Manuel took my urine sample to the lab in a little cup, and a few days after that he came back and told me that the results were positive, just as he’d suspected. I was absolutely overjoyed for one fleeting moment, and then almost immediately wracked by new doubts. My mind surged back and forth, rising into high tides of maternal emotion and then ebbing into a melancholic state, resigned, with no illusions.

  The week between Christmas and New Year’s, I started to hear noises upstairs. The sound of Águeda setting the security system, locks clicking into place, was scary enough, but these new sounds–creaking and footsteps–kept me awake at night. My guess was that Manuel was either looking for the windows that appeared in the photo of his grandfather’s study or else in search of Juana’s trunk. In the mornings he’d get up late, bags under his eyes; plus he’d stopped coming into my room at night aft
er his aunt went to bed. Just seeing his expression when he came down to breakfast was enough to tell me that his hunt was not proving fruitful. I would have liked to go with him, but I chose to feign ignorance. I couldn’t force him to include me. To unveil that mystery was his prerogative.

  The air in the Denia house was as thick and heavy with tension as it is before a tropical storm. Águeda flitted around the rooms with nervous energy. From the library I could hear her cleaning doggedly, busying herself here and there with her ever-present feather duster. She went up to the third floor a lot, muttering to herself as she wandered from one room to another, a trail of unintelligible sounds in her wake. I suspected she was troubled because her nephew was on the trail of secrets she’d rather not stir up. Their obsession with history, the house, and everything in it bordered on the pathological, but I realized that even I felt an incomprehensible degree of fascination. I was intrigued by the mystery and electrified at the idea of unraveling it. I pictured myself taking part in a historic discovery that would be all over the headlines as soon as word got out. I pictured what it would be like to clear the hazy aura of madness that enshrouded Juana’s image, to show her to the world as I could see her, now that I had grown so close to her and could fathom what she must have felt. Given that I never went out, and only breathed the entranced air of the house and its possessions, I had no reality to curb my imagination. On the stairs and in the halls, I imagined that I heard a little girl’s footsteps following me. I imagined little Catalina, dressed in a coarse woolen sack dress, looking for someone to play with her in the gray rooms of that cold, lonely house on dark afternoons.