by Lynn Cullen
“What the hurry?” she asked when she caught Up.
I shook my head.
“You worry about the scultore you ask the King to find for you.”
Francesca was aware of my request to wed Tiberio, though I had never elaborated on our night together. I still feared her Unfavorable judgment. “Of course I do,” I said. “How can I help it? Why should I not think he would take the King’s offer just to save himself ?”
“What happen between you in Rome?”
I would not answer.
“You no have to tell me. I give Up after all the years. I just ask you to think what happen there. What you know in your heart”—she rapped on her chest, making the fringe of her shawl shake—“is the truth. The heart knows what the head do not.”
I looked down toward the garden and sighed.
“I think you should paint, signorina.”
“Paint,” I scoffed. “What do my paintings matter? They are just portraits—if don Alonso doesn’t get the commission for them first.” I resumed walking.
“Who say to do portraits is bad? Nobody. Just you.” Francesca drew her rough shawl more tightly about her broad shoulders as she stumped next to me. “I know you since you are a baby, signorina. When you learn to walk, you no hold my hand. You pull away, you rather fall than to take help.”
“I am not asking you or anyone else to help me.”
“Bene. But do you help yourself with the painting? No. You like to do the portraits, so do you try to make best there is? No. Yet you want to be the big maestra.” She spat onto the road. “Just by say ‘honey, honey’ do not make the sweetness come to the mouth.”
A commotion arose from the animal house at the bottom of the road ahead.
Don Carlos’s high voice rang out. “I said loose her! I am your Prince and you will obey me!”
Francesca’s thick brows dashed toward her nose. “What do he want now?”
Although I knew I should have turned back, perversely I walked on toward the pens. There, through the iron bars of the lioness’s cage, I saw Don Carlos struggling to free himself from Don Juan, though Don Juan looked to be having an easy time of holding him. Behind them sat Don Juan’s long-legged red mongrel, Rojo, scratching behind its ear.
“Believe me, Carlos,” Don Juan said. “I am for the creature ’s freedom as much as you are, but where would she go if she were loosed?”
Like a small child pulling from its nurse, Don Carlos strained toward the lioness padding along the brick wall on the far side of the enclosure. “I don’t know—she ’ll find her way. I don’t care! My Lady wants her loose, so I’m letting her go.”
“My Lady wants her freed?”
“Ow, Juan! You hurt me! Yes! She told me when I went to see her this morning. She was freeing the canary in my father’s office in the French tower when I came in.” He stopped struggling and smiled. “When he asked her what she was doing, she said it gave her great pleasure to see it go free, such pleasure that she would have all the caged creatures loosed in the land. You should have seen Father. For once it wiped that maddeningly calm expression off his face.”
He broke free of Don Juan with a burst of energy. “Touch me again,” he said, rubbing his wrist, “and I’ll have you arrested!” He peered through the bars of the cage. “Sofi—are you and your woman just going to spy on me all day?”
“Your Majesty.” I came around and curtseyed before him. “Your Excellency,” I said to Don Juan.
“Tell Juan he must let me do what I want.”
In spite of my troubled mind, I smiled sympathetically at Don Juan. Why he has taken it Upon himself to be his nephew’s keeper all these years, I do not know. It is a hard job that grows more difficult by the day. Perhaps Don Carlos awakens Don Juan’s natural compassion for injured creatures. For Don Carlos is as wounded a creature as any, his damaged brain given increasingly to fantasy and rages.
A clopping of hooves drew our attention. Down the road from which I’d just come trotted the King on a gleaming black stallion. The Queen’s mule-drawn litter jostled just behind him, its brocade curtains closed against the December chill. A troop of burly German guards, mounted on mules, followed at a discreet remove.
“Here comes the old billy goat now,” Don Carlos muttered Under his breath.
The King’s horse clattered Up then reared back, hooves flashing, as His Majesty pulled the reins sharp. His horse still dancing, the King reached down and touched Don Carlos’s shoulder. “My son.”
Don Carlos knocked away his father’s hand as the Queen’s litter came to a halt before Us. A slim gloved hand drew back the curtains; My Lady peeked out. Her blink acknowledged Don Juan’s presence before she smiled at Don Carlos.
“Toady.”
“My Lady!” Spots of color appeared on the Prince’s pasty cheeks.
The King retained his pleasant calm as he sat back into his saddle, a bracing wind ruffling the feather in his cap. “Juan,” he said coolly. “Nothing better to do today than to admire the animals?”
“That is exactly what I am doing. I am studying patience from this one.” He nodded at the lioness, treading in her enclosure.
The King’s smile was all coolness. “You believe she has feelings? Thoughts, even?”
“I believe she thinks of her escape, yes.”
“Oh, does she?” The King gazed at him a moment. “I suppose my horse is scheming, too. Planning to throw me, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” said Don Juan. “One cannot always know what is on the mind of the creatures around us.”
The brothers stared at each other, the King settling his horse.
“My Lady,” said Don Carlos, “I hope you are feeling better than when I saw you last. How is your headache?”
“Much better, Toad. You are sweet to ask.”
“We would not be out if she did not feel well,” the King said mildly.
“Oh,” said Don Carlos, “so you do notice when she’s ill, then?”
A slight cloud passed over the King’s calm features. He sat forward in his saddle to peer into the cage before him. “I hope my lioness does not plan to escape soon. She has a surprise coming for her—” He looked at the Queen. “A mate. Perhaps a cub can come from it.”
“A cub,” she said flatly. “I should like that.”
Don Carlos looked his father Up and down. “Why are you letting your hair grow? It is longer than Don Juan’s.”
I could not help glancing between the King, with his graying hair drawn back beneath his fur hat in a tidy queue, and Don Juan, his carelessly tousled locks catching in the wind.
“The King tells me that the camel in his collection has given birth,” said the Queen. “Would you please show me, dear Toad?”
The King’s hand went toward his queue. He frowned. “Yes, do show her.”
“I will, but not because you asked me. Come, Elisabeth.”
“I should like to walk,” said the Queen.
“Help her down, Juan,” said Don Carlos. “I’m not that strong today. Tomorrow I shall be better.”
Don Juan stepped to the edge of the litter. The wind picked Up, rippling the scarlet hangings. My Lady closed her eyes and leaned into the waiting arms of Don Juan.
She opened her eyes and beheld him as he set her on the ground.
“Don Juan,” said the King. “May I have a word?”
Don Carlos snatched at the Queen’s hand. “Come! You don’t have to tag along, Sofi,” he said when I started to join them. “Just hold on to Cher-Ami.”
The remainder of Us watched them go, Don Carlos’s pale countenance lit Up with eagerness as he chatted, Her Majesty’s face, already fuller even this early in her pregnancy, alert as she glanced at Us over her shoulder.
“Walk with me,” said the King to Don Juan.
They strolled past the bars of the enclosure, Don Juan’s red dog padding behind them. I stared as if transfixed at the far side of the lioness’s cage, where the poor shaggy beast trod the straw-strewn earth. F
rancesca gazed, too, adept at becoming invisible.
The King and his brother had gotten only as far as the other corner of the cage when His Majesty said, “May I ask you something?” He watched, expressionless, as Don Juan made a soothing sound at the lioness.
Don Juan straightened. “Of course.”
“Does my son seem worse to you?”
“Does he to you?”
The King opened his mouth, then closed it. He started again. “I have had reports. I need not remind you that his pages are sons of important people. They cannot be cuffed about like peasants.”
“I have spoken with each of the young men,” said Don Juan, “when it was necessary. They Understand the situation.”
“My son, the ‘situation.’ ” The King sighed deeply. “How did it come to this? I remember when he was a babe in the cradle. I had such high hopes for him—such a beautiful child. He was all I had. I lost his mother at his birth.”
Francesca’s chin drew Up closer to her brow. It is commonly said that the King had ignored his first wife, bedding her only enough to plant his seed. It is reported that he had shed no tears at her funeral. She had been just seventeen, and he eighteen.
“I must have respect,” said the King. “My position—the security of my kingdoms—requires it. How am I to ask men to give their lives for a man who cannot control his own son?”
“I will work with him, but the problem is not dire. Those around him know his generous side, his natural sweetness. We know he means no harm. He is given to his emotions, good or bad—we all Understand that.”
“He cannot be ruled by emotions if he is to be King. My father—our father taught me that.” The King pushed away from the cage. “Why do you care about my son so?”
Don Juan smiled calmly. “He is like a brother to me.”
“I am your brother.”
They stared at each other, two dogs with a bone lying between them, sizing Up their opponents.
“And so I trust you,” said the King.
“My Lord!” called the Queen. She approached hurriedly, Don Carlos lagging behind her. “The newborn camel is pure sweetness! Such long lashes, like a human child.”
“I am glad you like it.” The King gathered her against himself. “Do you feel well, my pet?”
Her gaze traveled to Don Juan.
The screech of rusty metal rent the air. Shouts went Up from the King’s German guards just as the lioness streaked past Us, her tufted tail arched like a monkey’s.
“Look at her go!” Don Juan banged closed the cage door. “Fly, birdie, fly!”
The lioness bounded toward the maze. A German guard chopped the air with his halberd, blocking her way. The beast changed directions, surprisingly light on heavy paws, then changed direction again when charged Upon by a pitchfork-waving keeper screaming in Flemish. Her exits cut off, the animal lowered into a crouch, switching her tail.
Don Juan put himself between the beast and the advancing keepers. “Everyone,” he ordered in a quiet voice, “allow her room.”
The lioness’s great bony chest heaved as she glanced left and right, considering her options.
“Shh, my beauty,” Don Juan whispered. “I promise, we will not hurt you.”
The big cat stared, her ears pivoting to pick Up the excited murmurs in Spanish, Flemish, and German around her. She swallowed in nervousness.
I felt the intensity of another gaze close by. I peered past Francesca, her fist balled at her mouth, past Don Carlos, hands on hips, grinning, Until my sights caught Upon the Queen. Her chin tilted Up as if fighting against the invisible bonds holding her from within, she beheld Don Juan with a yearning so naked I had to look away.
When I did so, I noticed the King.
He was watching her, too.
He snatched an arquebus from a guard and slapped it to his shoulder. A scream scorched my throat: “No!”
The gun went off. The lioness spun around and bounded past the maze.
The guards gaped at the King, still pointing his gun Upward, the direction in which he’d shot it.
“Get your nets,” he said serenely. “Be sure you capture her well away from the Queen.”
He waited Until they ran off in a din of clanging armor.
“Doña Sofonisba,” he said.
My heart banged my chest like a fist. I had publicly challenged the man responsible for the Queen’s—for my—for most of the world’s—wellbeing. A man who could and would do anything he pleased.
I could feel Francesca’s frightened look Upon me.
I curtseyed low and long. “Your Majesty.”
When I arose, his calm expression was almost puzzled. “Sofonisba, did you truly think I could hurt such a beautiful creature?”
“No, My Lord.”
He regarded me for a long moment. “I have word for you. From Rome.” His calm eyes lingered on my face. I fought back the panic rising in my gut. “About the man you asked the Queen and me to make inquiries into.”
He handed the arquebus back to the guard.
“I must tell you, he is dead.”
I write this tonight with the aid of a full goblet. Francesca has not stopped me each time I have refilled it. They have not yet captured the lioness, though the King’s hunters have tracked her into the hills to the north of Madrid. They will catch her soon and bring her back safely, or so I heard the King promise My Lady, before he shut himself in her chamber for the night.
ITEM: Tactus eruditus (Latin, “learned touch”) refers to a doctor’s ability to glean information about a patient’s condition by applying his fingers to the patient’s pulse. The rhythm, strength, and tempo, considered together, are called pulse music.
15 AUGUST 1566
Valsaín, the House in the Woods of Segovia
Isabel Clara Eugenia she is named. She was born to the Queen at Valsaín on the twelfth of August. Oh, what a little beauty she is, with a tuft of dark hair and her mother’s dark eyes and gossamer ridges where her father’s arched brows will appear. Her lips and chin resemble her mother’s thus far, a happy victory, at last, of Valois over Hapsburg. Her grandmother will be pleased by this, if not by her lesser sex.
Today we celebrated her baptism. To that end, we met in the main courtyard in the early morning, to wait for the carriages that would take Us to the nearby town of Segovia, to the ancient Cathedral being rebuilt there at the King’s command. Bees droned in the dewy hedges, birds cheeped from their nests in the palace walls, and cowbells clanked from the meadows nearby Until horses and carriages burst onto the cobblestones, drowning the morning music in the rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves. I alit in my assigned carriage, a conveyance far back in the queue. Without the Queen, who was dangerously ill and abed, my rank was much reduced. Indeed, I did not want to go. I wished to stay with My Lady, for the birth had nearly killed her and her life hung in the balance yet, a fact not readily apparent from the festive dress and air displayed by the men and women now packed inside the carriages.
Wedged between two ladies smelling strongly of jasmine, I braced myself against the rocking of our vehicle as it hurtled through the woods toward Segovia. In less than a turning of an hourglass, the high arches of the famous aqueduct from Roman times came into view. Its weed-sprouted pillars, towering over the wall encircling the town, were a jarring reminder of the great civilization that had flowered and flourished and then withered into silence. The line of carriages, reduced to child’s toys at its granite-block feet, came to the yellow stone gates of the city and thundered inside, where they were greeted by cheers from the people lining the streets. From their brick and timber houses, the people strained for a view while singing thanks and praise for their Lady and her child.
At last the carriages reached their destination, and the Court assembled within the bare marble walls of the Unfinished Cathedral. We stood at the base of the massive stone piers of the aisle and waited for our King to enter.
He arrived to loud fanfare, with the crown of Fernando Upon hi
s head and no expression on his face. Was he worried about My Lady? We had left her in a state of near-unconsciousness. She might not be alive when we returned, but to save the soul of her child, the baptism had to go forward. Yet how I wished to flee the place, a place made no less distressing to me even with the sweet voices of choirboys echoing from the arched stone vaults above. My Lady hated this church. Once, several years back, we had come with the King to see his new alterations. A bird had flown in and could not find its way out, its screams growing ever more frantic as it flew higher and higher and found itself more trapped. A workman flung a stone. The bird plummeted to the floor. Cheers went Up from the workers on scaffolds and pushing wheelbarrows. My Lady had rushed out into the bright light of day, swearing she would never come again.
I fear that might be true.
Now the King, in his crown and ermine, stopped before the altar and turned. With a rustle of hundreds of rich silks, the crowd turned, too, and beheld, delicately carrying a bundle of ribbons and lace, Don Juan, his handsome face pinched with contained emotion. The King had chosen his brother as godfather.
The bishop entered, resplendent in crimson encrusted with tiny pearls from his miter to the hem of his chasuble, and Mass began. After the bishop had swung his censer, wafting incense over Us penitents, he started the spoken rite, intoning in Latin that broke in waves from pier to ceiling to the marble floor, the reverberations punctuated with an occasional echoing cough or scrape of a slippered foot. The King and Don Juan were bidden to the alabaster baptismal font, an ancient piece carved with the shields of long-gone kings.
The bishop raised his voice, his words lost in the crash of echoes. He stared expectantly at Don Juan. Don Juan gazed into the baby’s pink face, then held her Up to receive her holy sprinkling, the white ribbons of her gown shaking as he did so.
In sonorous Latin, the bishop asked for her father to make the sign of the cross Upon the child’s forehead. Slowly, the King took his gaze from his brother and transferred it to his newborn daughter, and there it remained, rapt, for the rest of the service.
