The Creation of Eve

by Lynn Cullen

  The condesa patted at her throat, aghast that she had been shouted at like kitchen help. Madame, perhaps from prior experience at the French court, was already gliding out the door.

  I stepped back as the condesa wheeled around stiffly and left the room. I knew I was to go, too, but could hardly bear to leave My Lady looking so distressed, with one sleeve off and the other hanging half Untied from her shoulder.

  “Go.” Queen Catherine waved at me from her chair. “Shoo.”

  I summoned all my courage. “Please, Your Majesty, may I finish helping My Lady with her gown?”

  My Lady folded her hands in supplication. “Please, Mamma, she is—she’s Italian like you.”

  Queen Catherine’s protuberant eyes moved Up and down over my person in a leisurely fashion. I felt each flaw Francesca tries so hard to scold out of me.

  “Big eyes,” she said at last.

  “Mamma!”

  “And we trust no Italian farther than we can throw one. Calm yourself,” she said when My Lady started to protest. “We know who she is. She studied with Michelangelo. The old lecher got himself into hot water, didn’t he?” she said to me. “Lusting after a man a quarter of his age. Now his lover is in trouble.”

  The French Queen Mother saw my look of surprise. “Don’t you know we know everything? We’ve seen the poems by Il Divino, mooing like a lovesick cow over his lover. Some loyal friend this boy turned out to be. Of course he denied knowing of the existence of the poems. But he finally admitted he knew of Michelangelo’s leanings and denounced him and his work, which might almost have been believable had the boy not been hoarding a large Unfinished statue that contains the likeness of his lover. We suppose he’s rowing on a galley as we speak. Lucky for him bodies are much needed at the oars to fight the Pope’s wars at sea, or his would be swinging from a gibbet.” She thinned her lips at me, clearly enjoying my efforts to hide my shock. “She can stay. She’s harmless enough.”

  My Lady grimaced in apology, though not knowing how profoundly her mother had wounded me. Ill, I resumed Untying her sleeve.

  “You have failed Us,” the French Queen Mother snapped.

  My Lady flinched.

  “You have been wed five years. You are comely enough. Our reports say the Spanish King has no physical impediments. He sired one child Upon you, though you could not bring it to term, and he has sired other children.”

  “Child,” My Lady whispered, as I pulled the sleeve from her arm. “He only has one child, Carlos.”

  “Correction: children. There is the daughter he got Upon his sister’s attendant.”

  My Lady blinked. “Eufrasia de Guzmán? But she was wed to the Prince of Ascoli. The child is Ascoli’s daughter.”

  The Queen Mother ignored My Lady’s look of confusion. “At least our sources say Felipe is no longer dallying with the sister’s attendant. They assure Us that you are regularly in his bed. Are you?”

  My Lady’s hands trembled at her sides as I began work on the buttons of her overgown. “Yes.”

  “Do you please him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He hasn’t guessed your”—the French Queen Mother glanced at me—“condition?”

  My Lady’s hand went to her throat, Upon which bloomed the rash that so often bedevils her. “No.”

  “Where’s our fan? You,” the Queen Mother said to me, “stop fidgeting with her gown and fan Us. It is too bloody hot.”

  I had no choice but to leave My Lady’s overgown hanging open. The Queen Mother waited Until I had picked Up the broken-handled fan and was waving it over her fleshy face.

  “We stopped to see Nostradamus on the way here,” she said, “to see if he could predict when a child was to be produced from our contract with Felipe. He would not say, though he was full of news about the boy of your father’s Protestant cousin, Jeanne. Forecasting that her son, that puling little Henri of Navarre, would be king! Why in Heaven’s name would he think we would want to hear that? Though Nostradamus did say that our Henri was to be King, so we eventually forgave him.”

  “Charles is already King,” said My Lady. “How could Henri—” She stopped as the answer became clear: Should Charles die, Henri would become King.

  The French Queen Mother shrugged when she saw her daughter’s mouth ease open. “It was Nostradamus’s crystal ball, not mine.”

  “Charles is your son! Does Henri matter so much more to you that you would wish Charles dead?”

  The chair groaned as the Queen Mother repositioned herself. “Don’t be preposterous.” She snatched at the fan. “Give Us that.”

  I relinquished the fan with a curtsey, then, my head pounding, went back to my Queen to help as she stepped out of her overgown.

  “We are not speaking of Charles here,” said the Queen Mother, “but you. Do you please your husband?”

  “I said I did.” My Lady’s voice was now more angry than fearful.

  The Queen Mother fanned herself, making the false curls bunched to either side of her black French hood bounce. “How often?”

  “You tell me, since your spies seem to know so much.”

  “We are alone together fifteen minutes and already you take that tone with Us, and in this foul weather. We cannot bear it.”

  My Lady tucked in her chin in anger. I began to Undo her bodice, willing her to take solace in my presence.

  “We do not Understand it,” said the French Queen Mother. “If you couple every night, where is the child? Come here.”

  I released My Lady. She drew her arms against herself and, scowling, took a step forward, her bodice open.

  “Bend down.”

  She tipped toward her mother.

  The Queen Mother reached with her free hand into My Lady’s bodice and felt around. “Where are the amulets we have sent you?”

  My Lady withdrew. “The frog charm stank, as did the dried stag’s testicles. Felipe threw them out.”

  Queen Catherine smiled slightly. “We wonder if he does not want you to be pregnant. Perhaps he wishes to cast off you and his alliance with France.”

  “That’s not true. He loves me.”

  “We remember well when he announced to the world that he loved that ghastly little English queen, Mary.”

  “He loves me, Mother. I know it.”

  “You know that he loves you.” The Queen Mother laughed.

  My Lady returned to my side. “I know it will come as a revelation to you, Mother,” she said as I lifted off her bodice, “but sometimes people do care for each other with no other motive than love.”

  “You surmise that he has this so-called love for you because he takes zest in bedding you? Your father would bed Us at night, and after we poured our heart and soul into pleasing him, he would wear that Poitiers bitch’s colors at the tourney the next day. After all our tenderness, we were just a bucket to collect his seed.” The Queen Mother watched as I Unlaced My Lady’s corset. “Well, regardless. Something is not working here—you should be pregnant. You must make Felipe bed you twice a day. It should not be so difficult a task, as much as he ‘loves’ you.”

  “Mother, I am doing enough!”

  The Queen Mother reached out and snatched her arm, jangling the neck-strings of My Lady’s shift. “Look at me!”

  My Lady raised a furious gaze.

  “We have heard rumors.”

  My Lady said nothing.

  “Don’t think we don’t know about your inappropriate relationship with the youngster.”

  “I have done nothing with Don Juan.”

  The French Queen Mother paused, then let her daughter go. She sat back with a smile. In a honeyed voice, she said, “We were speaking of Don Carlos.”

  My Lady turned away. I busied myself with folding her clothing.

  “We could always read your face, from the time you were a little child. We wonder—can the King read it, too?”

  “There is nothing to read!” My Lady went to the window.

  “Quit playing games with Us! You
are wed to the most powerful man in the world and still you lust after another man. Oh, you are your father’s foolish daughter through and through.”

  “I tell you, it is not what you think.”

  “Come away from that window. Quickly! People will hear.”

  My Lady turned toward her mother. “There have been no improprieties.”

  “We thought we taught you better than this. Don’t you know how jealous Felipe is? Just your thinking about another man can cost my alliance with Spain and your life. You must give Up this brother now.” She clicked her tongue. “He’s not even full-blooded, just a bastard. We would not waste your sister on him if we did not need Spain so badly.”

  My Lady closed her eyes. “How can I give him Up when I have never had him?”

  “Mother of God, girl, quit this pretense! Do you think we jest? How do you think a strapping young man like the Prince of Ascoli died? From a little bellyache?”

  “He had the flux. It was very tragic. The King and I were both sad.”

  “Sad! The two of you could have been as sad as a pair of stiffed whores—that does not mean that your husband did not have him removed.”

  Fear crept into the Queen’s face as she digested this thought. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”

  “This is no suggestion, child. The fact is, the foolish Prince could not keep his hands off his wife, and that, you see, was not part of the agreement. He was not to touch what was the King’s.”

  “Why would Felipe care? He told me he had broken off relations with her.”

  “That may be. We suggest you examine the daughter for his likeness to be sure. But regardless: Once a king’s mistress, always a king’s mistress. Doña Eufrasia is his property. Oh, it is disgusting, we know, but it is the Spanish way. They treat their horses likewise. The Prince of Ascoli was Spanish. He knew the rules.”

  My Lady covered her eyes. “This cannot be.”

  “You are our child. We tell you this for your own good.” The French Queen Mother slowly lifted her bulk from her chair and opened her arms. Reluctantly, My Lady came to her. “Wear your charms,” she crooned in her daughter’s ear. “Stay well. Get yourself pregnant. Stay in his good graces. It will keep you out of the grave.”

  My Lady laid her head on her mother’s rounded shoulder.

  “Be glad,” the French Queen Mother said. “At least he has put his whore aside. We tried everything in our power to sever your father’s connection with that Poitiers bitch, and still, only death finally did the trick.”

  ITEM : “Embrace only your enemies.”

  —CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI

  15 JULY 1565

  Valsaín, the House in the Woods of Segovia

  When in Genoa to make my crossing to Spain, I saw a French war galley making ready to sail at the docks. The filthy, naked men chained to its rows of benches were hunched over their oars, gobbling the bits of bread thrown to them by their master, while the other crewman made ready with the sails. Then a drummer began his beat, a whip cracked, and with a collective groan, the oarsmen bent to their work. How long can a man survive such a life, made to toil past exhaustion in the blazing sun by day and to sleep exposed to chill winds by night?

  Now Tiberio is on such a ship.

  Condemned for sculpting his lover’s visage: how cruel the irony! The statue that was to make his career had destroyed him. Had it not been found, would the judge have let Tiberio free? He had denounced Michelangelo and his works, the French Queen Mother had said. Had Tiberio born witness against the homosexual leanings in Michelangelo’s works and in the man himself, thus shredding the Maestro’s reputation to save his own skin? Yet with fire to his feet, even a son would denounce his own father. Who could blame Tiberio for saving himself?

  But there is still the matter of the poems Michelangelo had written to him. The French Queen Mother had said that Tiberio had denied knowing of their existence. Under the pain of torture, wouldn’t he claim to know of them just to get his inquisitors to stop?

  With these thoughts swinging to and fro in my mind like a bell on a rope, the trip to France passed in a blur. Yet in my troubled state, even I could see that Don Carlos’s condition was worsening.

  At first on our visit, he had behaved surprisingly well. He had done all the things the heir to the Spanish crown should do: honoring the French Queen Mother by taking her colors at the lists; cheering enthusiastically (perhaps more so than his father would approve) at the many spectacles celebrating the Spanish and French alliance; allowing a draw in a mock battle during a masque, when he really wanted to win. Even when young King Charles insisted on driving his sister, My Lady, on a tour of the countryside, and Don Carlos was already at the helm of her chariot, ready to drive, Don Carlos merely bowed to the boy King and handed over the reins, though his face had turned most red.

  The condesa de urueña thought the improvement in his behavior was due to the break in the terrible heat the day after our arrival in France. Indeed, most were relieved. At least soldiers were no longer dropping in their armor like felled timber.

  Madame de Clermont had a different opinion. She insisted that Don Carlos’s more chivalrous leanings were due to his wish to impress My Lady’s sister Margot, whom the French Queen Mother continues to put forward as another possible prospect to strengthen her alliance with Spain.

  But even though the twelve-year-old Margot is nearly as lovely as My Lady, Don Carlos, I fear, has not eyes for her. Indeed, at the French Queen Mother’s ball, he backslid momentarily in all the strides he had made in decorum by slumping Under the canopy of state between Mademoiselle Margot and the Queen Mother while everyone else danced. The French Princess tried her best to engage him with her winsome child’s smile, but his pale gaze remained fixed Upon the dance floor, and more specifically Upon My Lady, Until at last her sister gave Up and slouched in the opposite direction.

  Don Juan, brooding over by the musician’s stand, must have seen Mademoiselle Margot’s downcast looks, for he stepped forward and begged the pleasure of being her partner. From where I danced nearby with My Lady’s ten-year-old brother, a thistledown bit of a prince incongruously named Hercule, I could see the glow spread over young Margot’s cheeks as they took to the floor. Don Juan gently led her through the stately steps of a pavane, his calm attentiveness a contrast to her desperate adolescent chatter.

  My Lady and her partner, one of the brothers from the powerful French family of Guise, paused by the pair as the next pattern formed. “Do watch your feet,” she told her sister. “Your partner has been known to tread Upon slippers.”

  Mademoiselle Margot gazed Up at her partner. “My Lord Don Juan,” she breathed, “would never step Upon a lady’s foot.”

  “Oh,” said My Lady, “he would, and he has.”

  “You are cruel!” Mademoiselle Margot exclaimed. “I like dancing with you, Don Juan.”

  “You are kind, mademoiselle,” said Don Juan.

  “Perhaps you would like to wed him, then,” My Lady said, addressing her sister but looking at Don Juan. “He has no plans for marriage. Or so he says.”

  Don Juan returned her gaze. “No, mademoiselle, I do not. I am a bastard, you see. I would never have the honor of marrying a daughter of France, no matter what.”

  “That’s not true!” Mademoiselle Margot cried. “Mother said we could marry.” She scowled at Don Carlos, draped in his chair next to the French Queen Mother. “He won’t have me. I think there is something wrong with him.”

  The music swelled, setting the dancers in motion. Don Juan led Mademoiselle Margot away. The French Queen Mother, watching from Under her canopy, turned to her son Henri. Deep in conversation with a handsome boy, Henri did not see her look of displeasure. Nor did he see the growing expression of outrage on the face of Don Carlos, now on his feet on the other side of Queen Catherine.

  I danced on Uncomfortably, through no fault of young Hercule, who tried his best to be a manly partner though the cards were against him, as his eyes wer
e level with my bosom. It would not matter if he had the stature of his namesake. My mind was on Tiberio. As I performed the steps of the pavane with this child, he could be rowing Under the sting of a whip, his muscles burning, his belly groaning, his tongue swelling in his mouth. Even if he loved the Maestro, he did not deserve this punishment. But why had he taken me that night in Rome? To convince others—himself—that his leanings were like other men’s?

  I was dispiritedly trying to keep Up with my spritely companion, when I noticed My Lady had taken a new partner: Don Juan. As Don Carlos stewed Under the dais, My Lady and Don Juan stepped and hopped, not speaking, though a current flowed between their bodies, a current I could feel across the crowded floor, a frisson that raced between their lips and eyes and breasts. With dread that others might be watching, too, I watched as they stopped at the end of the pattern and, with a terrible slowness, lifted their gazes to each other. And as the dancers around them made meaningless talk and straightened their dress, their yearning swelled into the breach between them, jangling, jangling, jangling in a silent cacophony of desire.

  The lute struck Up. Dancers leaned into their moves, and with them the Queen and Don Juan, their connection broken, though its reverberations sounded in my head even when the music stopped and the gnat-weight Hercule was leading me, shaken, toward his mother. For I knew their desire. And with me, Tiberio had known it, too. Our bodies had not lied. No matter what was said, he desired me that night.

  Don Carlos jumped from his seat, startling My Lady, who approached the dais with Don Juan.

  “Why do you avoid me?” he demanded of her. “Do you not care about me?”

  Don Juan released My Lady’s hand. She glanced at her dam, whose fleshy lips were pursed in grim expectation.

  “Toad,” said My Lady. “Dearest. You know I care about you.”

  “You haven’t spoken to me all night, when I am the one who truly loves and esteems—”

  The Queen’s fool, a Spaniard called Cisneros, shook his rattle. “Crowns, crowns, King Felipe loves crowns! The new horns on his head—they fit him—zounds!”