by Lynn Cullen
Not soon enough, the rites were over, and deafened by clanging bells, I waited for my carriage to return me to Valsaín and the Queen. A golden carriage rattled Up; its curtain was pushed aside. Doña Juana’s face, framed in black and white by the nun’s habit she has taken to wearing, appeared at the window.
“Sofonisba, will you join Us?”
A footman opened the heavy golden door. Inside sat Doña Juana and doña Eufrasia, no less beautiful now that she has returned to court. Across from them, like a great sow settled comfortably in a mud puddle, sat Inquisitor-General Valdés, a sweet smile on his fleshy face.
He patted the cushioned seat with heavily ringed fingers. “Sit, my dear. Sit.”
I sat, immediately sinking toward his spicily perfumed bulk.
“We were just speaking of you,” said Doña Juana.
The Inquisitor-General nodded. “I have been to see the Pope.”
I stared. Michelangelo was dead, as was Tiberio. What could they possibly want? Had the King told his sister that he had inquired into Tiberio for me? What harm could she do to me and to the Queen with this information?
“His Holiness much admires the portrait you have done of our Queen,” said the Inquisitor-General. “He wishes to commission you for another.”
I tamped back my astonishment. “I would be honored. As soon as Her Majesty is well.”
“Oh, her mother assured Us she would be well soon enough. Good breeders run in the family.” He folded his hands over his belly, his slow respirations whistling through his nose. “Catherine had a brood of what, seven? My Lady should be able to have a son soon.”
I glanced out the window as we passed the city walls and turned onto the road that ran alongside the aqueduct. My Lady could not eat or drink or sit Up in bed, and they had her pregnant with a new child.
With a grunt, the Inquisitor-General shifted in his seat, sending me sliding even closer. “Did you ever hear what became of the Sistine Chapel, my child?”
I caught my breath.
Doña Juana smiled mildly. “I believe she has not.”
“They decided not to destroy it.” The Inquisitor-General massaged the flesh bulging over the back of his collar. “At least not Until it is decided if the changes sufficiently improve the work.”
“Changes?”
“A painter was commissioned.” The Inquisitor-General quietly burped into his fist. “To paint clothes Upon the nakedness of the men in The Last Judgment. The ceiling is next.”
“Someone is going to tamper with the Maestro’s work?”
“Tamper?” Doña Juana raised her brows, noting the rise in my voice. “Improve it, most of Us would say. Michelangelo was too stubborn to do it on his own, endangering the entire painting. And so was that lover of his. He said he would die rather than lay a brush to it.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it before Tiberio’s name could escape.
She gazed at me, filing away my reaction for future Use. “And this was after the judge had been good enough to let him go after he’d denounced Michelangelo’s homosexual leanings. Bold, considering they still had evidence against him. What became of that Unfinished statue, Inquisitor-General? Do you know?”
“I could not say. It was of no value, ruined as it was. Ground Up for paving, I suppose.”
I stared at my clenched hands.
Doña Juana chuckled. “They have a nickname for the painter they found to do the work on the Sistine Chapel—‘Il Braghettone.’ Now remind me again what that is Italian for?”
I swallowed. “The Breeches-maker.”
Doña Eufrasia tittered.
“Do you remember the name of this man?” I asked.
Doña Juana shrugged. “Someone Unimportant. A Daniele somebody. A friend, obviously, who cared little about his own reputation, since painting loincloths does not exactly further one’s career.”
Was this “Braghettone” Daniele da Volterra? I had met him at the Maestro’s house—a self-effacing, kind man, and faithful follower of the Maestro. Tiberio said he had been one of those who had stopped Michelangelo from destroying the statue. Poor signore Daniele. He would be a laughingstock amongst the other painters in Rome, known for daubing breeches onto naked men, yet he had done this to save the frescoes.
A bee flew in through the window. The Inquisitor-General paddled the air, squealing, as Doña Juana swung at it with her Bible. She killed the offending insect, but not before it had stung doña Eufrasia on the hand. By the time Doña Juana pulled out the stinger and the Inquisitor-General had kissed the pink swelling and doña Eufrasia had finished sniffing back her tears, the subject had changed to how Doña Juana would have remodeled the Cathedral in Segovia had someone had the intelligence to consult her.
To Sofonisba Anguissola,
In the Court of the Spanish King
I trust you are well. Today I received the greatest treat—a copy of The Lives of the Artists by messer Giorgio Vasari, with a mention of you in it. It was personally delivered by the author himself, he being on business in the area. When Count Broccardo heard about him, he hurried over and proceeded to reminisce about you as if you were his own child. Messer Vasari seemed to enjoy Broccardo’s tales, though they were mostly made up. Messer Vasari is quite a congenial fellow and seems to know everyone. He regaled us with stories about all those he knows, including your friend Michelangelo. Did you know that Michelangelo never painted a portrait of himself? The closest he came to recording his own features were on the face of the flayed skin held by Saint Bartholomew in the painting of the Last Judgment. The likeness is hideous to behold, said messer Vasari, but quite recognizable. Greatest artist in the world, but the poor man must not have thought much of himself to paint himself thus.
Please thank the King again for sending the large sum of money. We never looked for this windfall, and are grateful beyond words. It has eased your mother’s crippling burden of worry, at least temporarily, and hence mine, and I have been able to settle both Minerva and Anna Maria upon wonderful husbands. Europa, I am sorry to say, eloped this May past with a Florentine soldier and returned to us as a mother. She has named her little daughter Sofonisba.
One last item. Signore Vasari said that he left the miniature portrait of you that I gave him with a friend who insisted upon keeping it. Someone in Rome. The name escapes me now. It seems you have admirers everywhere, my dear. I am not surprised.
From Cremona,
this 29th day of November, 1566
Your loving Father
ITEM: Note when painting that the surface of every dark object takes on the color of the bodies placed against it.
23 JANUARY 1567
El Alcázar, Madrid
Slowly, My Lady grows stronger. By the time the storks had flown for Africa in October, she was sitting Up in her bed. On All Saints’ Day, she was able to ride by litter to Madrid. Now, in January, she takes walks down the halls of the palace on the arm of the King.
It is touching to see how tenderly His Majesty attends her. While other husbands might be frustrated or even angry with their wives for not assuming their wifely duties more quickly—My Lady is still not strong enough to receive him in her bed—each day the King comes to her chamber before Mass and closely questions her ladies as to her activities during the night. He is anxious to hear, he says, how well she has slept. He attends his own private chapel for Mass while we take her to the main chapel for services, after which, if she is well enough, he then sets her Up in his office. With much gentleness and care, he personally settles her onto his red velvet divan and provides her with a special strengthening cordial made of his own devising. Only after she is comfortable, blanket Up to her chin, goblet in hand, does he proceed with his work. Even then, he pauses with his pen from time to time, watching over his spectacles as My Lady takes a sip. No Queen has ever been so coddled by her King. What the French Queen Catherine would have given for even half this attention from My Lady’s father. I should be sorely glad for My Lady.
But she is not happy. Yes, My Lady smiles, she talks, she fusses over her pretty baby when it is laid Upon her arms. But something is wrong with her. Something is desperately wrong. Her smiles do not connect with her eyes. Her voice is lifeless. Her caresses for her child are cold. She had settled into a closed silence during her pregnancy, but I thought she would be better after she had the child. She is worse. It is as if her soul has taken flight, leaving only the shell of her behind.
I have voiced my concerns to Francesca. Signorina, you no meddle, she tells me. You do her no good by meddle.
But My Lady is miserable, and I am not the only one who sees it.
This morning I was braiding My Lady’s hair when I heard footsteps at the chamber door. My Lady’s lips formed a ghost of a smile when she looked into her mirror and saw who it was. “You are Up early.”
Don Carlos strutted in, swishing his sword like a sorcerer’s wand, Don Alessandro shaking his head behind him. Don Alessandro has recently brought his bride back to Madrid, where he took her to her own rooms in the palace, then promptly forgot her. Now, smelling overwhelmingly of perfume—he must have drenched himself before leaving his chambers—he kissed My Lady on the cheek as the Prince sheathed his sword with a zing.
“I have to come early, My Lady,” said Don Carlos. He helped himself to the sugared almonds in a dish on her dressing table. “It is the only way I can talk to you without Father lurking around.”
She stared at her silver-framed image in the mirror. “He is my husband, Toad.”
“He doesn’t have to claim every minute of your time.”
I hung on to her hair as she smiled Up at Don Carlos. “I shall be better soon, then I shall go out with you.”
“Soon!” He crunched on the almonds. “It has been months since you had the baby. You should be well by now.”
Francesca and I exchanged glances as she handed me a comb. Just yesterday Francesca had muttered how strange it was that a woman as young as the Queen still has not gained her strength after childbirth and is given so to fevers. My Lady is only twenty-one—a mere spring pullet—too young to be withering away.
The Queen sighed. “Don’t remind me, Toad. Believe me, I wish I were better.”
Don Alessandro picked a bit of fluff that had fallen from his plumed hat to his sleeve. “Cousin, this is not the best way to cheer her Up, you know.”
Don Carlos ignored him. “Come with me after Mass, My Lady! Then we shall go to the zoo. I know you are fond of the lioness there, that you send her special treats. Or we could go riding about town disguised as—as—monks.”
“Monks?” scoffed Don Alessandro.
“I know it will make you feel better, My Lady. You just have to get away from—things,” he said darkly.
Footsteps echoed in the hall outside. Metal clanked against armor as the guards stationed before the door lowered their halberds in salute and the King entered the chamber. Francesca sagged into a curtsey, and I swept into my own.
Don Carlos frowned as Don Alessandro kissed the King’s hand. “I want to take My Lady riding this morning, Father.”
“In winter?” he said mildly. The Queen lifted her chin for the King to kiss both cheeks, then gazed again into her mirror. He placed a hand Upon her shoulder.
“It’s not that cold,” said Don Carlos. “She’ll be in a litter. We have robes! It would do her good.”
The King smiled apologetically, as if sorry to point out his son’s poor thinking. “Even if exposing her to chill breezes did not go against all medical wisdom, she would not want to leave her child.” He lifted a finger to stroke one of the Queen’s cheeks.
“It wasn’t so hard for you to leave me,” said Don Carlos, “when I was a baby. Eight whole years of my childhood you were gone. Traipsing around Europe and marrying the English hag was more important to you than I was.”
The King lifted a brow. “It was my father’s wish that I tour our lands and wed Mary, and being a dutiful son, I put all my personal desires aside to do what he asked. I did not realize you held this against me.”
“I did not say that. It’s just that—you could have taken me with you.”
“Self-pity is not attractive, Carlos.”
“I am just telling you how I feel!”
“I did not know you ‘felt’ so bad. I thought Juana raised you in my stead quite well. I won’t let her hear how Unhappy you are with her.”
“I am not Unhappy with her! Why do you twist things around?”
The King assessed him calmly with his heavy-lidded gaze. “Is the pain quite bad in your head today?”
“What are you doing?”
The King kissed the top of the Queen’s head. “What do you mean?” “You are trying to make me sound insane!”
“Carlos, I am not trying to ‘do’ anything.”
“You are evil,” Don Carlos said, backing away.
“Carlos, please—”
Don Carlos rushed from the room, knocking into the nurse carrying in the Infanta. A cry went Up from within the bundle of satin and lace in the nurse’s arms.
“Go with him, Don Alessandro,” the King said wearily. He took the child from her nurse, then motioned for the serving man standing by the door. “See if my apothecary can mix my son a stronger elixir. He’ll know which one.”
Having finished My Lady’s hair, I drew her girdle around her waist and fixed her prayer book to it. We went soon after to Mass.
Not the sweetly acrid smell of frankincense nor the jingling ring of the altar bells at the Elevation of the Host nor the calming chant of the priests could dispel my Uneasiness over Don Carlos. The Prince was only trying to voice what I myself was thinking, that the Queen’s recovery might be hastened by letting her venture from within these walls. Regardless, dismissing Don Carlos’s suggestion out of hand was sure to set him off. Why could the King not bend for his son, even if the King was right?
At least I could get out of the palace. The moment the King claimed My Lady after Mass, I grabbed my shawl and, with Francesca muttering behind me, set out to get some air. Past the flagstones of the palace courtyard I wandered, down the steep Calle de Balien, then through the Plaza de la Villa with its ancient tower. I was glad for the sharp winds from the Guadarramas that tugged my skirts and stung my face. I was alive and well, and as soon as the Queen could safely be left, I was going home.
For I have decided. I need to be back again in Cremona, painting in my room as the bells clang so stolidly out of pitch in the tower of San Giorgio across the piazza and the hens cluck in our courtyard. Once surrounded again by familiar things—Papà, my sisters and brother, the servants gathering around our well, chatting as the bucket lowers once more from its squeaking pulley—I might find again the stillness in my mind into which God can whisper. I might glimpse once more that gossamer connection to the other world that resides in each of Us, that essence so rare, so beautiful, so completely true that we can bear to comprehend it only for the briefest of moments. At home, God willing, it will come again to my brush.
It shall never come to me in the stifling atmosphere here.
Thinking how I might broach the subject of my dismissal with the Queen, I began the steep climb Up the Costanilla de San Pedro, stopping for breath in front of the Church of San Pedro el Viejo. My hand to my heaving breast, I gazed Up the apricot-colored brick wall of the bell tower. Above the Moorish arches of the belfry, Upon the red-tiled roof, sat the empty nest of a stork, its tumbledown pile of sticks outlined by the stark blue sky.
“No storks for two months, my lady.”
I looked down. An elderly woman held out a bowl from the shadows of the covered church porch. “Alms,” she croaked, in a voice as rusty as the gate to a family crypt.
I nodded to Francesca, who took a coin from the purse at her waist.
“Already I feel better,” I told Francesca as the coin clinked in the beggar’s battered tin bowl. “I could not stay in that palace another moment.”
Francesca rejoined me, pullin
g closed her purse.
I stopped to rearrange my shawl Upon my shoulders. “Poor Carlos. I wish he could have convinced the King to let My Lady have an outing. But he spoiled any chance of it by arguing with his father. His rashness Undoes him every time.”
Francesca tightened her shawl around her head. “The Prince, he have a kind heart.”
“If only that were enough to see him through. As fond as I am of him, I shudder to think of him as ruler of half the world. I fear that it is only a matter of time before he goes completely raving mad like his great-grandmother Juana.”
From the shadows, the old woman rasped, “Doña Juana was not mad.”
I drew in a sharp breath. What was I thinking, speaking so freely in public? My words were not ones that should get back to the King.
The woman’s voice came again. “It only suited her son to make her seem that way.”
I picked Up my skirts, a signal to Francesca that we should leave.
The woman stirred within the dimness of the porch, her coins—precious few of them, by the sound of it—swishing against the sides of her bowl. “My mother was a servant to Queen Juana. I grew Up in the convent where she was kept. And I tell you—her mind was clear.”
“Come, Francesca!” Why did she tarry so?
“The Emperor stole her crown, then made his son keep it. What a different place Spain would be now if she had ruled. Instead, what did we get? Wars. Fighting for a piece of dirt. Kings and their pride! They would have Us all dead before giving an inch.”
“Francesca! Now!”
The woman quickened her speech as if afraid we would get away before she finished. “I am not the only one who loved her. Did not Juan Bravo and the other rebels lose their lives in trying to rescue her from prison? But her own sweetness was Used against her—she had not the stomach to fight her own son. She went to her grave grieving over him and her grandson.”
