by Lynn Cullen
Francesca cut me a look.
“I can face the truth, you know,” the Queen said. “My mother was wed to my father just as I was married to the King, to seal an alliance—in Mother’s case, between the Medici pope Clement and my grandfather François I. She was only fourteen, just like me, though my father was her age, not an old man like my husband.”
“Your Majesty,” I said, “forgive me for saying so, but His Majesty is hardly old.”
She waved her letter in dismissal. “Father was fourteen, and he already had a mistress—Diane de Poitiers. Why would my husband not have one, with all his years to do so?”
“Your Majesty, excuse me, but you do not know this for certain.”
“How well I know the signs from my parents’ own arrangement. My father’s polite treatment of my mother in public and his cold tolerance of her in private—it is happening to me now.” She bit her nail, then snatched her hand away from her mouth. “Why won’t the King touch me at night? He lies next to me Until he thinks I am asleep, then watches me as I pretend to slumber. Am I that wretched?”
I gazed at her heart-shaped face, illuminated by the shining yellow of her satin bodice. She looked so fresh and bright with the bloom of youth, yet so full of heartrending doubt. “Your Majesty,” I said, my voice thick with conviction, “you are nothing but beautiful.”
A girl’s grin warmed her worried countenance. “I am?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. You are indeed.”
Her smile fell. “Have you seen that diamond doña Eufrasia wears? Do you think I do not know what it means when jewels only a king could afford appear on one of the court ladies?”
I kept stirring the pot.
She lifted the Great Pearl from her bodice front. “See this? It is La Peregrina, the pearl they call the Wanderer—the biggest oval pearl in the world. It may be worn only by the Queen of Spain, not that the King’s black-haired wench will care. But I care. I know who is Queen. And I hope each time the King sees this, he recalls who his Queen is, too.”
I could feel Francesca’s dark gaze boring into me. I had told her the story associated with the Pearl and Bloody Mary, and of the King’s lack of regard for both.
“This sizing can cook on its own.” I laid the stirring stick, still dripping, across the top of the pot. “Your Majesty, would you like to practice sketching? We need to work on hands. I must show you a copy of a drawing the great German maestro Dürer did of hands clasped in prayer.”
The Queen shuddered with a sigh. “Not that my mother’s being Queen mattered one soupçon to my father. Against Mother’s wishes, he made his mistress head of the Royal Nursery.” She grimly noted my look of surprise. “That is correct—he had his mistress take care of the children he so coldly got Upon my mother. Could he have wounded my mother any more deeply?”
“Oh, My Lady.”
“And I, without knowing it, served perfectly as an instrument of his torture. For I loved Diane de Poitiers. I admit it—I loved her deeply. I love her still. How can I help it? She was kind to me when no one else was, even though I was but a pale shadow of my cousin Mary Stuart. Madame Diane paid attention to me in spite of my own father’s insistence that Mary be put above me, as Mary was to wed my brother when she grew older and become the Queen of France. To Father, I was nothing, but to madame Diane—she believed in me. It was she who insisted that I learn Latin, Greek, Italian, and Spanish. Oh, I may act silly before the King—he flusters me so!—but because of madame Diane, I know philosophy, literature, mathematics, and history. I suppose I am the only woman for a thousand miles who can quote Ovid: ‘Hic ego qui iaceo tenerorum lusor amorum / Ingenio perii, Naso poeta, meo . . .’”
I picked at the glue on my skirt. “ ‘Here I lie, Naso the poet, playful writer of tender loves, perished by my own talent.’ A very doleful self-epitaph, that.”
The Queen looked at me in sUrprise. “. . . or am the only woman who knows which beasts of burden Hannibal took over the Alps in winter to win a surprise victory over Rome . . .”
“Elephants.” I smiled. “Pardon, Your Majesty, I could not help myself. We were barely off the breast before my papà taught Us of Hannibal. He is Papà’s ancestor—Papà is inordinately proud of it.”
She raised her brows. “. . . or is familiar with all of Boccaccio’s tales in The Decameron . . .”
“All one hundred of them? Well done, My Lady. In Italian?”
“ ‘Umana cosa è aver compassione degli afflitti . . .’ ”
“‘. . . and so compassion is especially demanded of those who have had need of comfort and have found it in others . . .’ ”
The Queen tucked in her chin and broke into laughter. “Doña Sofonisba, I had no idea! Wouldn’t the condesa just burst to hear Us spouting our learning like men?”
“I have never Understood why women should not.”
She clapped her hands in delight. “That is just what madame Diane Used to say! You do remind me of her, doña Sofonisba. Greatly. The King was right to give you to me.”
I drew in a breath. Well, she was correct, wasn’t she? No matter how well trained my brain, I will never be anything more than chattel to be owned—just as, now that I think on it, is she. Be a woman queen, lady, or servant, in this world of men, all women are the same—disposable, should we fall.
My Lady sighed. “You would have loved madame Diane. I wish that you could have met her. She called me her petite chou-chou and took me on visits to her palace of Chenonceau. We Used to float down the river Under Umbrellas, eating sugared almonds and reading Aesop’s fables to each other in Latin.”
“I am sorry, Your Majesty—has she left this world?”
She smiled ruefully. “Only Mother’s. Mother chased her from court the moment Father was laid to rest. Mother owns Chenonceau now. She keeps her soothsayers there.”
She got Up slowly. “How my love for madame Diane must have salted my mother’s wounds. I Used to take madame’s side against her, but why wouldn’t I? My mother, so squat and harsh compared with the elegant madame, had little time for me, obsessed as she was with gaining my father’s attention. So while Mother was scouring the world for soothsayers to portend Diane’s downfall, and sorcerers to charm Father into her arms, her own daughter was running to the other woman. How I wished to be Diane, so calm, so beloved. And now here I am—as desperate as my mother.”
I gazed at my glue-spattered apron. I wanted to help the Queen in her quest to win the King. But even if I had the slightest notion of how to succeed at love, who was I but a painting instructor, born of minor nobility?
The jewels on her yellow skirt clicked on the bench as she plopped down next to Francesca. “You two shall know the worst of it: I was terrible that first night when the King came to our wedding bed. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. They lay at my side like two dead things Until he pushed inside me. Then I Used them to push him away.” She covered her face. “He has left me alone since.”
Gingerly, Francesca put her arm around the Queen. “Shhh. Shhh.” She glared at me, demanding me to produce words of comfort.
“Show him that you want him,” I blurted. “A man cannot resist a woman who wants him.”
The Queen raised her head from Francesca’s breast. “Do you think?”
The memory of Tiberio, of our night together, rushed into my mind, transporting me to the Maestro’s Upper room, where the lamplight flickered in air thick with stone dust and desire. Carefully, tenderly, Tiberio was folding back my veil. He brought my mouth to his; our sweet kisses turned to fire. When I thought I should cry out with the agony of containment, he sat me on the edge of the table, where I watched, my lips throbbing from his kiss, as with shaking hands he lifted my skirt, pushed back my petticoats, then groaned, low and lost, at the sight of me.
Now I drew in a shuddering breath. “Let him feel you tremble, My Lady, and feel his trembling, too.”
I felt Francesca’s questioning gaze Upon my face. “The Decameron,” I said.
&nb
sp; “Which tale?” said the Queen. “I remember nothing about trembling.”
I would not look at Francesca. “My Lady, is not the shared vulnerability between husband and wife the essence that brings them together? At least—at least that is what I would guess.”
The Queen sighed. “Felipe does not seem very vulnerable when he stares down at me in bed.”
I stirred the thickening sizing. “Perhaps, then,” I said quietly, “we can catch His Majesty’s eye with your talent. Let Us work some more on drawing hands.”
“Oh, what cares a man for talent!”
The Queen lolled back onto Francesca’s breast. Francesca smoothed her hair, the murmur of her shushing in peasant Italian blending soothingly with the bubbling glue.
ITEM: “The Courtier should use his eyes to carry faithfully the message written in his heart, because they often communicate hidden feelings more effectively than anything else, including the tongue and the written word.”
—COUNT BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE, The Book of the Courtier
ITEM:To purify vermilion before mixing it in oil, take the vermilion lump and grind it on the stone, first dry, and then with pure water. Then you must put it on a shell and place it on warm ashes, to evaporate the moisture. When dry, put it in a horn of glass, throw in strong gum water, stir it with a stick, then let it settle. Drain off the water. Repeat all steps three times.
27 MARCH 1560
El Alcázar, Toledo
Four days have passed since I have last written. I have begun work on my self-portrait. Having prepared my canvas and oils, I am working on a study of my face in ink. I wish to portray myself at the clavichord, for which I have set Up a large mirror between the instrument and my easel to look Upon myself.
It is not such an easy thing, trying to find oneself in one’s reflection. I see two large eyes, pink-lidded from lack of sleep; thick though silky brows; a turned-up nose; stubbornly set lips. If I can beautifully execute the details of these features, Anthonis Mor would say I would have an accurate portrayal. But will that truly be me? Am I not more than just flesh and peaked cartilage and the shining surface of eyes?
Thoughts like these do help turn my thoughts from Tiberio, who has not yet replied though there has been sufficient time for him to have done so. How I wish My Lady had a similar diversion to keep her mind from her failure with the King. When the invitation came for the conde de Benavente’s Lenten Feast, I welcomed it, thinking it would do the Queen much good.
Indeed, it cheered me to see Her Majesty at the head table, enjoying herself like the girl of nearly fifteen years that she is. On her right was Don Carlos, hanging on to her every word, and on the left, Don Juan, looking on quietly, as, with a flourish of trumpets, kitchen boys brought forth magnificent dishes designed to circumvent the dietary rules of Lent. The air was rich with the smell of cloves and cooked fruit and toasting almonds as boy after liveried boy Ushered forth with glorious dishes of confections, fruits, and fish—with not a speck of meat in any of them—Until at last, four boys struggled in Under a platter the size of a door. Upon this platter, on a bed of winter greens, lay a trout the size of a suckling pig. How the Queen clapped as it was placed before her, wafting its succulent aroma of fish fried with lemon, olive oil, and sea salt. Her approbation was exceeded only by that of Don Carlos, who roared like a bear cub when he turned from gazing Upon the Queen and saw the magnificent fish.
It was touching to see how My Lady pampered the King’s son, the poor awkward thing, crooning at him to get him to eat, teasing him when he burped, giving him the attention he has not received, I do guess, from a lady his whole young life, as his mother died when he was born. He sat Up proud as a cock when she dabbed his mouth with her napkin.
“What about me?” said Don Alessandro, on the other side of Don Carlos. He pointed to the corner of his own mouth. “Do I not need a little tidying Up?”
“None that I can afford you, monsieur,” said the Queen.
“Am I that filthy?” said Don Alessandro. “What about my uncle?” He nodded toward Don Juan.
The Queen turned to look at Don Juan, whom she had been scrupulously ignoring though he was sitting next to her. She turned back around. “I know not where to begin.”
“See, Uncle,” said Don Alessandro. “Our Lady finds fault with you. Did they not teach you to wash in the mountains?’
“Quite well.” Don Juan dabbed his mouth with his napkin. My table, adjacent to theirs, was not so far that I could not help noticing the V of downy golden beard trailing from below his lip into the dimple of his chin. “The sheep and I were bathed in the spring whether we needed it or not.”
“And I thought the smell at table was of the fish,” said the Queen.
“Oho!” said Don Alessandro. “She stung you there!”
Don Juan grinned. The Queen tucked in her chin with her winsome manner. “Where in the country did you grow Up?” she asked shyly.
“Born in a stable,” said Don Carlos, taking a draught, “no doubt.”
“Just like Our Lord Jesus Christ,” said Don Alessandro.
“Hardly,” said Don Juan. “I spent my first years in the countryside near Toledo, My Lady, then outside Valladolid, and later in the Sierra de Gredos, in a village so small you could spit from one end to the other.”
“Which you probably did,” said Don Alessandro.
“You cannot tell me,” said Don Carlos, “that in all that time you had no idea my grandfather the Emperor was your true father.”
Don Juan shook his head. “I did not. I thought my parents were dead. I was just a typical country boy, raised by a foster mother.”
“Who wouldn’t tell him the name of his father,” said Don Carlos, his mouth full. “Isn’t that what you said, Don Juan?”
Don Juan shrugged.
Don Alessandro laughed. “Unknown father, born in a manger—you really were the Christ Child.”
Don Juan scratched at his neck with one finger. “Don Alessandro, I think that lady over there does look at you.”
Don Alessandro peered at my table. I blushed to think they had caught me staring, then saw he was looking at a French lady younger than myself, seated a few persons away. Buffone! Of course they would never notice me. To them I am a woman past Youth’s first blush, dressed in odd and spotty Italian clothes. I have not been able to swallow my pride to ask My Lady for new ones, though as the King’s ward I am entitled to them.
When I glanced back at the head table to see if they were still admiring the lady, Don Juan was looking into the eyes of the Queen. She turned away quickly.
“Must I feed you dessert, too, Brother?” she said to Don Carlos.
The Prince opened his mouth wide.
The Queen laughed stoutly. “Look at you with your mouth open—you look like a little toad! That is what I shall call you—my Toad. Shall I put in a fly, Toady?”
“Yes.” He grinned. “Do.”
That was yesterday. Today Don Carlos brought the Queen a ruby the size of a cherry. He said it was his mother’s. When Her Majesty said Don Carlos should save it for his bride, he said nothing, just turned and stalked away.
It is good only a short time remains of Lent and the King will then leave his retreat at the monastery to resume his relations with the Queen. For surely the Prince does grow to love the Queen too much.
ITEM: The Seven Deadly Sins and the colors associated with them in painting:
Pride—Violet
Envy—Green
Anger—Red
Sloth—Light Blue
Greed—Yellow
Gluttony—Orange
Lust—Blue
21 MAY 1560
The Palace, Aranjuez
A war rages between Her Majesty’s French ladies and her Spanish, although the Spanish ladies have won a partial victory by getting the King to send most of the French ladies back home. The remainder of the French ladies never did get the clothes that had been sent ahead when they had first traveled over the Pyrenees to Spain
. Francesca tells me the maid of one of the Spanish ladies brags that some trunks with French labels on them can be found in a stable in Cáceres, at the family seat of her mistress.
But hardened by battle, the surviving French ladies do fight back. They scramble for the seats closest to My Lady at bull runs and fiestas. New trunks from Paris have arrived, from which they introduce décolleté gowns in rose and emerald and tangerine that make the Spanish ladies, with their penchant for stiff, black, high-collared garb, look like fusty old nuns. The French ladies choose the richest of the Spanish men for their affairs of the heart, and win them handily. Although dressed in the most exquisite French gowns of all, the Queen seems scarcely aware of the petit dramas around her. She has troubles of her own. As do I.
Today we celebrated the King’s birthday, his thirty-third. Last week, he had decided he would like to mark this day by having a family picnic at Aranjuez, his country estate a day’s ride east of Toledo. Those of Us who attend the Queen were crowded into coaches, farthingale crushing farthingale, the French refusing to speak to the Spanish and the Spanish to the French. Each faction gossips amongst itself, excluding me, an Italian and of lower rank than any of them, excepting their maids. We trundled through the dun-colored hills with the household servants, the kitchen servants, the tapestry makers, the embroideresses, the jewelers, the doctors, the musicians, the stable boys, and all the rest of the twelve hundred essential household attendants rattling in the wagons behind Us. As I gazed out the leather-curtained windows at the ranks of twisted gray olive trees rolling by, I could not help remembering my first trip to see the Queen, when she had gone to meet the King. Although it was not five months ago, how much younger she had looked then, so lively, a little girl ready to play the Queen.
Now, just turned fifteen, she has already begun to change. Her beauty has grown even in this short period of time, with her face ripening and her cheekbones gaining more prominence. She still plucks her brows and hairline in the French manner, though her face would be pretty without it, as it would be without the thin coating of lead-white powder that her mother insists that she wear. Yet in spite of her growing beauty, she acts less sure of herself, with no small part of her Unhappiness caused by a certain lady riding two coaches behind Us, in the suite of the King’s sister Doña Juana.
