The Creation of Eve

by Lynn Cullen

  “He does take a very close interest in many things.” I thought of the King ordering every last detail of the Queen’s care during her illness and, now, during her recovery here.

  “I wish more of his subjects appreciated the keenness of his mind. Back in my native Bruges, he is portrayed as the Devil himself. ‘The Black Legend, ’ the slander about him is called, mostly secondhand propaganda coming from England. I do believe most Flemings think that Felipe eats babies for breakfast. It is odd how willing people are to believe what they hear. Just because something is said does not mean that it is true.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking briefly of maestro Michelangelo, “but sometimes rumors are true. Did we not prove that with coca?” I raised my chin. There. I had acknowledged the afternoon I had drooled all over myself. “What has become of your experiments with the herb, señor?”

  “I didn’t realize you were interested.”

  “Of course I am,” I said stiffly. “It is science.”

  He frowned. “I am sorry. It is just that I had the impression you were trying to avoid me in Aranjuez.”

  I could not speak. Had it not been he who was avoiding me?

  “I was not so much offended when I came back with the pliers to remove your woman’s tooth and found you both gone. I thought perhaps she had lost her courage or one of you did not feel well from the herb—I hoped that wasn’t so. I was relieved when she came down to see me when I inquired about her and I was able to do the job. But whenever I saw you in the distance over the next few weeks, and thought of approaching you—”

  He had seen me? And had thought of approaching me? Our gazes met and then flew apart.

  “Well,” he said, “it does not matter. The case for coca is closed. It seems that the stinging tendrils of the Inquisition reach all the way to the New World.”

  “The Inquisition?” I said, glad to speak of something else.

  “When Inquisitor-General Valdés learned of an herb that soothes countless Indians in Peru, he decided it must be of the Devil. How could all those natives worship God with their heads numb with the green slimy stuff? When I told him I had encouraging therapeutic results from my experiments with it here, he accused me of worshipping science. He had me taken into custody for questioning.”

  “When?” I exclaimed.

  “The summer after our experiment.”

  “Are you well?”

  “The dwindling number of Spanish Protestants and heretics gave him altogether too much time to devote to me.”

  “That is terrible! You were trying to do such good.”

  “The King had me freed as soon as he heard, but I went to Sevilla to avoid the Inquisitor-General’s eye for a while. I am sorry to say that when I passed through Aranjuez last month, on my way Up from Sevilla, all the coca had been destroyed.”

  “All of it? No! That cannot be. Those who need the relief it can bring will not be allowed to have it?”

  “Do not worry, juffrouw. His Majesty will not fight the Church, but there are other herbs to try and he supports my work in bringing them to the people. The King wishes me to start an experimental garden of New World plants at El Escorial, too. My work will continue there as well as here.”

  “The King’s new Royal Monastery—I have not been to see the construction yet. They say it will be the Ninth Wonder of the World. His Majesty says he will take the Queen when she has fully recovered, to see how the building is coming along.”

  “Oh, it is a wondrous sight—a magnificent monastery and palace combined, cradled by noble mountains. I hope you can see it soon. I had come here today to harvest some specimens for transplanting there, but as you see”—he held Up his empty basket—“I must change my plan. Oddly enough, a great swath of the planting I wished to harvest has been plucked Up, roots and all.”

  “Was it a valuable plant?”

  “Not really. I was raising it only for the flowers, which are not particularly noteworthy. But for some reason, the King is quite fond of them. I was growing the specimens at his request.”

  “Do I know this flower?”

  “Perhaps not.” He tossed back the wing of shining dark hair that had crept into his eyes. “Moonflower, it is called.”

  I shook my head in nonrecognition.

  “Few know it,” he said, “even in my circle. It blooms only at night. By day, it ’s a fairly plain plant. I can’t think why anyone would want to steal it.” He Used his basket to scratch his leg. “I just hope whoever took it is careful. It is quite poisonous. The cattle of New World settlers who have grazed Upon it have died a slow and painful death. Of the flux, it is said. The poor beasts are made to suffer and cramp Until they run dry and die.”

  I heard the crunch of pine needles. I turned to see Francesca marching toward Us, her veil whipping in righteous anger. “There you are, signorina!”

  I blushed, realizing how openly I had been speaking with a man, and how much I had been enjoying it.

  She pinned doctor Debruyne with a stern look.

  “How is the tooth?” he asked pleasantly.

  She flashed her empty gum. “Bene. My lady must not be alone when speak to the gentleman.”

  He laughed, then bowed to me. “You see that I must take my leave, juffrouw.”

  I curtseyed, then watched him go as I fought off feelings of regret. How easy it was to talk with him. How it stimulated my mind. But perhaps revealing my interest in herbs and science threatened him, as my serious pursuit of painting—and his perception of my success—had discouraged Tiberio. I heaved a sigh, then turned to follow Francesca.

  Francesca’s rough-spun veil grated against the coarse material of her gown as she shot me a look over her shoulder. “I tell you something now so you know to keep it hush. The Queen no need to hear this bad thing now.”

  “What bad thing?”

  “Servants’ talk.”

  “Not more gossip.” But when I drew Up to her, I saw that her face was troubled. “What is it, Francesca?”

  “The Prince of Ascoli, he died.”

  “Doña Eufrasia’s husband?” I thought of the young man escorting the King’s former mistress to the doomed reception. As lean and handsome as an Arabian stallion, the prince was the picture of virility. I remember thinking how gracious it had been of the King to reward his mistress with such a healthy specimen of manhood. “But he was so young.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “How did he die?”

  Her thick peasant’s brows knitted together. “Stomach flux, for long, long time. Three week he is in terrible pain. The cramps, they nearly rip him in two. They say it is from poison, but signorina, what kind of the poison take so long?”

  ITEM: It is said that in the ceiling above the studio of the great painter Albrecht Dürer there existed a grated hole. Whenever Dürer fell into his well-known fits of melancholia and lapsed into idleness, his wife, spying from above, would rap the grate to spur him into action.

  ITEM: There is another famous hole in the floor. In the Royal palace of Saint-Germain in Paris, under the finest Turkey carpet in the French Queen Catherine’s bedchamber—a room seldom visited by her husband—there is a narrow shaft that reaches down through the ceiling below. She no longer rolls back the carpet and looks through the hole—not now that Diane de Poitiers no longer stays in the bedroom below it and Henri of France is dead.

  9 OCTOBER 1564

  Valsaín, the House in the Woods of Segovia

  The first of the October rains came this morning. It fell in a gray curtain outside the window of the King’s office, its hiss blending with the strum of guitars and the scratch of the King’s quill as he bent over his desk. I stood by the Queen, waiting to stack the documents that she had sprinkled with sand after the King had annotated and signed them.

  It is not every day that I help the King in his office. Today, in fact, was the first. Two of his secretaries had taken ill last night, and when His Majesty mentioned to the Queen after Mass that he was summoning a third to he
lp him plow through his daily stack of documents, she had asked to fill the role.

  “I am Queen,” she said to him, “yet I have not signed a single document other than letters to my mother since I arrived in Spain.” We were strolling in the covered arcade around the courtyard—no other ladies were in attendance. The Queen said they tired her, and the King, never one to enjoy the tension between the French ladies and the Spanish, did not insist Upon their presence. Now the rain had begun, dampening one’s clothes and impregnating the air with the smell of wet wood. “I do feel quite Useless, My Lord. I should like to be a help.”

  The King held her by the back of the neck as they walked. “You would find it very boring, pet. I read and write Until my eyes blur and my fingers cramp. Sometimes I can get quite testy.”

  “I would not mind.”

  “That is because you are perfect.” He leaned in to kiss her. “But wouldn’t you two rather be dabbling at your colors?” He looked over his shoulder at me.

  I bobbed in a brief curtsey. These days mostly I read aloud while the Queen listlessly stitches.

  “I cannot have my office turned into a hen’s nest, My Lady,” he said to the Queen. “But very well. Since I cannot see you at night.”

  She slid out her lip in a child’s manner. “Cruel doctor Hernández. He must stop thinking of me as an invalid.”

  I gazed out from the arcade. It had been the Queen who had appealed to doctor Hernández for respite from her marital duties, telling him that she was too weak for coupling, begging him to bar the King from her bed. Doctor Hernández had reluctantly agreed, but warned her that he would have to bleed her thoroughly if her weakness continued for more than another fortnight.

  I saw the King’s hand tighten around her neck. “Do not worry, pet. He has told me it will not be long Until you will be healthy enough to resume all your activities.”

  Soon we were in the King’s office, where I waited with my hands clasped as the King wrote. The rain purred outside the window; the King’s guitarists played a light gypsy song. The King was scribbling away at a document when the Queen asked, “Did doña Eufrasia have her baby, My Lord?”

  He looked Up, his round-framed spectacles Upon his nose. “¿Cómo?”

  “Doña Eufrasia. Was her child born? I have not heard.”

  “I don’t know—yes, I suppose it was. I am working, pet.”

  She watched him write for a while. “It was a pity she lost her husband.”

  His pen stopped.

  “I sent her a note of condolence,” she said.

  He resumed his writing. “That was good of you.”

  She sprinkled some sand into her hand, then blew it onto the floor. “Will you not call her back to court, My Lord, now that her husband is gone?”

  “She has got a baby now,” he said, not looking Up from his work. “Regardless, that would be my sister’s decision. She is part of Juana’s household, not mine.”

  “Have you seen this baby? Is he—she—”

  “She. I think.”

  “Is she as pretty as doña Eufrasia? Or does she look like her father?”

  “You are keeping me from my work, pet. Shall I call for another secretary?”

  Don Carlos marched into the office, followed by Don Alessandro. The Prince went straight to his father’s desk without a glance at the Queen.

  The King put down his pen and got Up to embrace his son. “How are you today, Carlos? Did you try those herbs I gave you for your head pain?”

  Don Carlos shrugged free. “No. It tastes foul. I won’t drink it.”

  “Toad,” said the Queen, “will you not say hello to me?”

  Don Carlos turned slowly, clenching his fists at his sides as she stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “What have you to say for yourself, Toady? You have not come to see me for weeks.”

  “My Lady,” he said, his voice breaking with earnestness, “I have heard you are not yet well.”

  “Do I not look well?” She turned this way and that, her gold and black gown rustling. “Oh dear! I have spilt some sand.”

  Don Carlos struggled for words as she went over to place the shaker on the King’s desk. When she saw the Prince’s discomfort, she exclaimed, “Look at your pretty new pendant!”

  He gazed down at the ruby-studded jewel Upon his narrow chest, then raised his chin with resolve. “It is a locket.”

  She plucked it Up, still suspended around his neck, and opened it. “Why, Toad! It’s a picture of me. Sofi, did you paint this?”

  I did not need to examine it. I had painted nothing in months. “No, My Lady.”

  Still bound to the Queen by the chain of the locket, Don Carlos returned his gaze to the floor. “Don Alonso painted it, from the portrait Sofi painted of you.”

  “May I see?” said the King.

  Don Carlos’s eyes flashed with hatred. “Why don’t you just take it? Take it, like you do everything else from me.”

  The King glanced at his musicians. They remained bent over their guitars.

  “We came to take you walking, My Lady,” said Don Alessandro. He had been unusually quiet. “May we please borrow her a moment, Your Majesty?”

  “I hardly think that is a good idea,” the King said, “with it raining.”

  “It stopped,” Don Carlos said flatly.

  We all looked to the window. Indeed, the rain had given way to watery sunshine, with the trees dripping in staccato.

  “She is still recovering,” said the King.

  “She would not need to be recovering if you had not Used her for your base desires,” said Don Carlos.

  “Carlos!” the King said harshly.

  A page entered with a tray of pomegranate slices.

  Don Carlos marched to the door and, with a jab of his elbow, knocked over the page’s tray on his way out. Porcelain smashed. Pomegranate slices, trailing seeds and rosy pulp, slid across the tile floor.

  “Better watch him,” the King said to Don Alessandro.

  “Let me go with them, too, My Lord,” said the Queen.

  “Absolutely not. He is Unpredictable.”

  “My Lord, Toad would never hurt me. And I can stop him before he hurts himself. I have a power over him. Please let me go, My Lord. It will be good for me to get outside. I shall get stronger in the fresh air.”

  His face weary, the King pressed his lips to her hand. “I do want you to be well.”

  “I will be. For you, My Lord. I promise!” She pulled away and fairly skipped to the door, Cher-Ami tottering after her. “Come, Sofi!”

  We caught Up with Don Carlos in the arcade around the courtyard, where the quince trees, their branches heavy with fat yellow fruit, still dripped from the rain.

  “May we come with you?” the Queen asked.

  “Wouldn’t you rather be with my father?” Don Carlos pulled at a quince branch, showering me in his wake.

  “I want to be with you now.” The Queen took his arm. “Tell me about yourself, Toad. What have you been doing of late?”

  It did not take her long to soften him. By the time the guards were raising their halberds to allow Us leave of the palace, he was telling her what he had been doing since her last illness, and about the many expensive things he had acquired.

  We were past the meadows and the river and were deep within the woods when Don Carlos turned the subject to My Lady.

  “Has it been a trial, Doña Elisabeth, keeping to your rooms so much during this time of year?” he asked. We padded along on the grass, which grew so lushly in the mellow light shining through the pines. Our footsteps sent squirrels skittering Up the scaly rust-colored trunks of trees. “I love the fall, with all the riding, hunting, and falconing.”

  Don Alessandro laughed. “That falcon yesterday nearly took you with it when it set off. Truly, my friend, you must gain some weight, or we shall see you in the skies of Segovia.”

  “I stumbled,” Don Carlos said crossly, “and so released my bird awkwardly. Now Don Alessa
ndro will not let me forget it.”

  “Do not worry, Toad.” The Queen smoothed his hand. “I know he is cruel.”

  “Now, now,” said Don Alessandro. “Is that any way to talk?”

  “You are cruel,” the Queen insisted, “of the worst sort. You laugh when you thrust the knife.”

  “Me? Where do you get this thought? Did you dream something Up in your illness?”

  Don Carlos grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. “Do not mind him. He is harmless enough. It is my father who is the cruel one.”

  “For what, for trying to get a child on his wife?” said Don Alessandro.

  Don Carlos’s pale, watery eyes bulged with incredulous fury. He pummeled Don Alessandro’s muscular arm with his bony fist. “Take that back! Take that back!”

  The Queen flashed Don Alessandro her own look of anger, but as she caressed the Prince’s back, her expression softened into weariness. “Carlos, please, both you and I know I must bear the King’s children. What other reason is there for me to exist?”

  He stopped pounding Don Alessandro. “Oh, My Lady.” His voice broke with pain. “You are so much more than that.”

  The Queen kissed the padded shoulder roll of Don Carlos’s doublet. “You are so kind. But you are so, so wrong.”

  A squirrel jumped onto a branch directly above Us, sprinkling our party with raindrops and sending Cher-Ami into a frenzy. Don Carlos scowled Up at the offending creature, then, tenderly, wiped the Queen’s face with his sleeve. “Oh, Elisabeth, how I wish you were mine. I would treat you so much better than he.”

  She sighed. “He treats me well enough.”

  “No! I mean it—I would spend every single moment with you, every minute of every day. I swear, I would never let you out of my sight.”

  “Oh,” she said, “he’s quite good at that.”

  She commenced to walk again. I followed, face forward, not letting Don Alessandro catch my eye. I would not be his ally in provoking Don Carlos.