by Lynn Cullen
The ladies were still calling their approval when into the King’s wake clattered Don Carlos, Don Juan, and Don Alessandro. Despite their fine horses and armor, they fought like a pack of eager puppies to position themselves before the Queen.
“You must choose one, Your Majesty,” the condesa de Urueña told the Queen. “They each wish for you to be their liege lady.”
Even from down the line of swaying skirts, I could see the Queen’s nervousness evaporate as she considered the young bloods jostling before her. The King turned on his horse to watch.
My Lady held out her handkerchief to Don Carlos. “For the one who is like a brother to me.”
Don Carlos, a pale worm within a golden shell, reached with a clank of armor for the handkerchief, nearly falling from his horse. He caught himself just in time, clutching the frothy lace cloth to his breastplate. Even from where I stood, I could see his watery eyes shining with gratitude through his open visor. Equally visible was the King, leaning back in his saddle, taking it all in.
With a satisfied nod, the King swung back around. I followed his line of vision Until it came to rest Upon his sister, Doña Juana, Crown Princess of Portugal. I had seen Doña Juana at many of the events celebrating the arrival of the Queen. With perfect skin, shrewd blue eyes framed by white lashes, and a rounded brow that she lowers like a battering ram when she speaks, she is a beautiful woman in a formidable way. A person with any sense would not argue with her, though she is a young woman, near my years in age. Widow of the Portuguese Crown Prince, she had come back to Spain six years ago at her father the Emperor’s request, leaving behind her infant son. Busy waging war in France, the Emperor had chosen her to rule as his regent in Spain, since Felipe, then Prince, had gone to England to wed Mary Tudor. She quickly earned a reputation for stern efficiency and an Unblinking commitment to enforcing the law. But now even the woman known as the Iron Princess was chuckling as her nephew, Don Carlos, galloped off whirling the Queen’s handkerchief aloft, his page racing after him, calling him back.
The flash of a jewel caught my attention. I looked again to the King’s sister, then to the lady-in-waiting next to her, a beauty whose dark Uncovered hair shone blue-black in the sun. She toyed with a large diamond brooch as she stared at the King, and he, I did realize, was staring back at her.
That evening, at a masque given by the Archbishop of Toledo, I watched this lady closely. While the performers sang to the music of viol, lute, and harp, she did nothing more than carry Doña Juana’s train, fetch her mistress goblets of water, and stand back while the Princess voiced her many irrefutable opinions. The only time I took my eyes from the lady in the space of the first hour was to lift my empty cup to the pages circulating through the chamber with wine, while Francesca shook her head no from the servants’ gallery.
But even after the performance had ended and a dance had begun, not once did the lady look at the King nor he at her, and no movement between them would have gone Undetected. My attention was not divided, as was the other ladies’ in the Queen’s household, by the little war gaining momentum between the Spanish ladies and the French, ever since a French lady had overheard a Spanish lady complain to a gentleman that the French women were dirty. I had just decided that perhaps the connection between Doña Juana’s lady and the King was a figment of my imagination when the three young Royal caballeros, Don Carlos, Don Alessandro, and Don Juan, sauntered into the hall.
They made their way first to kiss the hand of the King, as was proper, then the Queen’s, though Don Alessandro had to push Don Carlos forward to her, as newly shy as the Prince was from her attention to him at the cane tourney. When Don Carlos brushed her hand with his lips, then stammered the standard “I kiss Your Majesty’s hands and feet,” the little Queen, as spirited as always, responded by asking him to dance.
The King watched them make their way to the floor, his brother Don Juan beside him. Although the King’s expression was calm and aloof, beneath crossed arms his thumbs twitched against his forefingers.
Cold air seeped through the shuttered windows, stirring the fringe of the tapestries covering the walls and bending the flames of the candles studding the great wheels of the candelabra overhead. As the Queen and Don Carlos stepped into a somber pavane, I studied the King and his brother. They did not speak to each other, even when in close proximity.
“Will you gape at them all night?”
I turned to find Don Alessandro at my elbow. Quickly, I averted my eyes. “I was studying His Majesty. I hope to do his portrait someday.”
“Is that so?”
I paused as if being torn from deep painterly thoughts, but Don Alessandro led me onto the dance floor to the sweet sawing of the viol. In truth, I had never entertained the possibility of painting the King. A lady drawing teacher was hardly a likely candidate ever to do so. As we commenced into the hesitating march of the pavane, I could smell Don Alessandro’s curls, fresh-washed in scented water, though a faint, boyish odor of dirt clung to him, reminding me he was but a new-grown man.
“So tell me more about the great Michelangelo,” he said.
I flinched.
“Does he paint all the time?” he asked.
“Not anymore.”
“As good as he is? Why not?”
“He is over eighty years of age now. At any rate, sculpting is his preference.” I forced a carefree laugh. “I think spending seven years on his back, painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, soured him toward the brush.”
“H’m. Being on one ’s back usually has a happy effect.”
Did he reserve his impertinence for me, or did he speak this disrespectfully to every woman? “Maestro Michelangelo says painting is all artifice,” I said, my voice cool with formality, “an illusion. It is merely a trick, compared with the solid reality of sculpted stone.” I drew in a breath, hearing in my mind Tiberio arguing for the superiority of sculpting. I could see him bent over the red chalk drawing of the Unfinished statue in Michelangelo’s house, the planes of his cheekbones sharp with seriousness as he proclaimed sculpture to be the harder art to master. Sweetest Holy Mary, had I misspoken in my letter to him? Should I have assuaged his pride more? Let my own hurt show less?
“I must like being tricked, then, because I like paintings better than statues. Besides, aren’t portraits a form of reality?” Don Alessandro peered at me as he raised my hand at a pause. “Are you well?”
“Yes. Of course.” I lifted my chin. “In Francisco de Holanda’s famous treatise on portraits, he defines them as ‘the contrived likeness of any prominent person of high standing, whose image should rightly be preserved for centuries to come.’ ”
“Well,” he said as we resumed our footwork, “I would like you to contrive my likeness. And make it good—I wish to be known to history as a handsome devil.”
The King’s nephew or not, he had a terrible way of asking for a portrait. Even if I were not obliged to instruct the Queen only, I have my pride. I took a few more steps before speaking. “I see Don Carlos wears Her Majesty’s handkerchief from the tourney.”
He glanced at me, then laughed. “Oh, you have noticed? Poor idiot, you cannot take it off him.”
“Like the Queen and her Great Pearl.”
He turned me slowly to the music. “What do you know of the pearl?”
“Nothing—why do you make that face?”
He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “The King gave it to her.”
We processed together in the opposite direction. “Is that unusual?” I said. “I Understand it is the best of the Spanish crown jewels. It is the largest perfectly shaped pearl in the world.”
“He gave it to his previous wife.”
“Don Carlos’s mother, the Portuguese Princess.”
“No, his second wife.”
“The English Queen Mary?”
He nodded. “Like our Queen, she never took it from her person. Bloody Mary convinced herself that the pearl was a token of his great affection—if
she couldn’t have the King, at least she had it.”
“How sad. Even in Cremona, it was known that he did not love her.”
He leaned close to whisper. “She died alone, with the pearl Upon her breast. They say they had to pry it from her cold, stiff hands.”
A chill prickled my scalp. Ahead, the Queen chatted brightly with Don Carlos as they stepped. Although the Prince hung his head, I could see his radiant smile.
“Why has not anyone told her?” I said.
Don Alessandro laughed. “Whom would you suggest? Her Spanish ladies will not tell her because they enjoy knowing something she does not. The French ladies will not tell her because they are afraid to make her Unhappy—or the Spanish ladies happy at seeing her Unhappy.”
“For one so young, you notice much.”
Don Alessandro shrugged. “I have lived all my life in courts. First my father’s”—his brow clouded as he glanced at the King—“now here. Someday I shall have one of my own as Duke, not that I want one.”
“Every man wants his own court, does he not?”
“Not I. I shall be sick of people asking me for favors all day. When I have a court, I will be tough like my great-grandfather. He was the Pope who had to fix the Church after Luther made his mess. Had a few handsome bastards, too.”
Luther. Who would have known that one man could tear all of Europe apart by suggesting that people did not need the Pope or priests to get to God? Such a simple idea. And such an intolerable one, especially to popes—and kings—whose position and power come from being God’s anointed representatives on earth.
Don Alessandro nodded ahead, to where Don Juan had just broken in to dance with the Queen. Don Carlos was standing aside, his pasty jaw ajar in shock.
“He still has not gotten over it,” Don Alessandro whispered. He turned me around again.
“Over what, señor?”
“He was betrothed to her at one time, you know.”
“Don Carlos? To the Queen?” It was hard to imagine the poor wisp of a youth as anyone ’s bridegroom.
“From the cradle, nearly. When the King was married to the English Queen Mary, Don Carlos was pledged to Elisabeth. Why do you look surprised—they are nearly the same age. You should have seen Don Carlos when the English Mary died and the King promptly announced that he would marry the French Princess himself. Don Carlos threw a chair out the window of the palace in Madrid.”
“I would not think he had the strength.”
Don Alessandro raised my hand to the music. “Truly? You have never seen the power of anger?”
Not long after, the dance concluded and the condesa de Urueña, madame de Clermont, and several other of Her Majesty’s ladies were in the Queen’s chamber, preparing her for bed as our own servants hovered in the background. The little Queen drooped, her face and neck flushed with exhaustion, as madame de Clermont Unpinned the Great Pearl and handed it to me, heavy as a plum in my hand. As the condesa waited nearby with a fresh chemise, madame removed the Queen’s robes and Unlaced her tight bodice. She then pulled away the stiff cage of sumptuous cloth binding Her Majesty’s thin chest. When she drew off the Queen’s shift to remove the corset Underneath, she gasped.
The Queen looked Up heavily, her arms folded over the peaked buds of her breasts. Seeing madame ’s face, she gazed down at her groin. A cluster of angry red pustules dotted her downy girl’s mound.
“My Lady,” madame said with haste, “it is nothing.”
I turned to Francesca, standing along the wall. Sweetest Holy Mary, was it the Small Pox?
The condesa stepped forward to slip the clean chemise over the Queen’s head, then without a word briskly left the room. Her voice rang harshly from the arcade outside. “Doctor Hernández! Send for doctor Hernández!”
Meek as a babe in a cradle, Her Majesty let madame de Clermont lay her in her bed. “Do not let the King come tonight,” she whispered.
Anger flamed within me. Poor young thing, having to worry about a husband when her greatest concern should have been which of her lapdogs to take to bed. If it was the Small Pox, she would soon be battling for her life.
“Do not let him see me!” the Queen cried.
“Of course we won’t, My Lady,” said madame.
“Make certain!”
When the King did come, he scowled at madame de Clermont ’s anxious whisperings, then shouldered his way past her to where the Queen lay very still, her eyes closed tight. Only doctor Hernández’s arrival and his subsequent dire warnings about contagion forced the King from the bedside.
No sooner had his departing footsteps stopped ringing from the cold stone walls than the ladies resumed huddling in their panicked knots. They wrung their hands and sniffed back tears, though whether their distress was driven by fear of exposure to the pox or the possible demise of My Lady, it is hard to say.
Now the dazed crowd lingers in the halls, waiting to see which way Fortune’s wheel will turn. Heaven help this girl who lies on the damask bed of state. She is the slender branch Upon which the peace between two kingdoms hangs.
ITEM: The Small Pox should not be confused with the Great Pox. The Small Pox is characterized by a rash of pimples that become fluid-filled pustules by the sixth day. The pustules are found on the face and extremities, less commonly on the trunk, leaving lasting scars should the patient survive. The Great Pox covers the patient’s body from the head to the knees, resulting in some instances in the flesh falling from the face. Bleeding is the recommended treatment for the Small Pox. The Great Pox may be relieved by the application of mercury to the skin, thus the saying, “A night in the arms of Venus results in a lifetime on Mercury.” The Small Pox cannot be passed to a child at birth by an infected mother. The Great Pox can, though the infant may not show symptoms until later in childhood. These symptoms include rashes, fevers, and weakness.
ITEM: The best oil for mixing with pigments is achieved by cooking linseed oil over a very low flame for two turnings of an hourglass or until it is reduced by one half. It is good to keep an infusion of willow bark on hand for the resulting headache.
22 FEBRUARY 1560
El Alcázar, Toledo
The doctors have pronounced My Lady’s malady indeed to be the Small Pox. The Queen has been quarantined with her ladies, who check themselves hourly for signs of infection. But after just two days, Her Majesty’s fever has ebbed, leaving her with just a sprinkling of pustules, the most of which are centered, oddly enough, around her groin. There is, however, a single large pimple Upon her forehead and a rash Upon her cheeks.
None of this was enough to keep our little patient in her bed this afternoon. Nor was she daunted by the dried egg-white and lead mixture cracking Upon her face—a recipe to keep her from scarring, recommended by her mother, Catherine de’ Medici, in instructions in case of afflictions of the flesh, sent with My Lady to Spain.
“Come away from the window, Your Majesty,” the condesa de Urueña said from behind her pomander. “Do you want your subjects to see you like this?”
The condesa was even more implacable than usual, perhaps because of her exclusion from the ceremony at which the lords of the realm were to swear allegiance to Don Carlos today. By King’s Order she was to remain in the Queen’s quarters, robbed of the chance to dress in her finest garb and show off her high position at court. How she smiled when it was announced that none of the French ladies were to go to the ceremony, either.
The Queen looked over her shoulder, her chin tucked back in a girlish grin. “Do you fear I might be mistaken for a Unicorn?” She raised her fingers to the white-crusted pustule on her forehead.
“Do not touch!” shouted the condesa.
The Queen lowered her hand.
“Until your mother hears of your illness and its progress and allows Us to discontinue the treatment she had expressly ordered, you must remain out of sight,” said the condesa. “It is hardly attractive.”
Her Majesty’s chief French lady, madame de Clermont, sat on a pil
low, languidly leafing through the brightly illustrated pages of her Book of Hours. “We are thankful Her Majesty’s mother, the Most Serene Queen Mother of France, had the foresight to send such an efficacious remedy,” she recited in the bored voice of someone toeing the official line.
“Her case is light and she probably would not have scarred anyway,” said the condesa. “In fact, I wonder if it is the Small Pox at all.”
The Queen blinked. “What is it, then?”
“A foreign rash.”
Madame de Clermont looked Up from her book and frowned as if wondering if she had been insulted somehow. The Queen turned quickly to the window.
“Whatever it is,” said the condesa, careful not to return madame ’s gaze, “you can still catch a chill, Your Majesty. Come away from that window.”
The Queen tossed her hair, which without a headdress hung in tight fawn-brown waves to her waist. “I think I shall die if I stay cooped Up in this room!”
She leaned out the window, then laughed when a passing priest looked Up and gasped.
“See what a spectacle you make of yourself !” the condesa exclaimed. “I shall tell the King I have no part in it.” She strode over to her pillow, puffing on her pomander.
“Sofonisba, you join me,” said the Queen.
I looked Up from where I had been adding depth to the shadows in one of the drawings I’d done of her while she had been abed.
The Queen smiled sweetly at the condesa. “She ’s supposed to teach me to draw. My husband says.”
I went to Her Majesty, ignoring the condesa’s scowl and Francesca loudly clearing her throat from where she sewed with the other servants at the far end of the chamber. As pigeons strutted on the nearby ledges, My Lady and I looked out over the huddle of yellow and gray stone buildings from our position atop the highest hill in the city. Here and there a brick Moorish tower, pierced with pointed horseshoe-shaped windows, or a Flemish bell tower, recognizable by its four-sided pointed top, jutted above the red-tiled roofs. Dwarfing them all was the massive gray-slated dome of the Cathedral. With all the shapes and angles, the scene would make an interesting sketch.
