Reign of Madness

by Lynn Cullen

A cheer went up from the ladies and gentlemen. I found that I was lightheaded.

  Philippe rode back to me, Delilah on his arm, her powerful yellow beak open to regain her breath.

  “Puss! Where were you? What did you think of our catch?” He kissed his falcon on the snow-white peak of her head.

  I struggled to smile. “Well done, Monseigneur. Well done, Delilah.”

  “Hendrik!” Aliénor sang out. “Are you not going to fetch the duck from the brush?”

  Philippe looked between us, smiling good-naturedly. “What?”

  The Viscountess brushed at her cheek, which retained a charming stripe of mud. “Her Grace the Archduchess thinks Hendrik is a huntsman’s varlet.”

  Hendrik shrugged. “I didn’t mind.”

  Philippe burst into laughter. “My Lady Wife, allow me to introduce Hendrik, Count of Nassau-Breda. At least, he will be when his uncle dies. Besides me, he’s the ranking gentleman of our party. And quite a little shit, I might add. What took you so long to get here?”

  “I was in Louvain.” Hendrik moved to get down from his horse.

  “Bothering your head with books.”

  Hendrik shrugged again, then bowed to me. “I wish to kiss your hand, Your Grace.”

  “You can do that later.” Philippe hopped down from his horse, gave the reins to a gentleman, then opened his free arm to me. “Come, wife, and see the curée.”

  His falcon’s eyes were large for her head and bright with intelligence. She craned toward the bird on my wrist, who, though heavy enough that my arm was growing weary from holding her, was only two-thirds Delilah’s size.

  “Hold her away from Delilah,” said Philippe. “They’ll get along as long as they’re not too close. They know each other.”

  I held out my bird, then stepped within my husband’s embrace. With his arm around me, and inhaling his familiar musky scent, I could be led to a hanging, for all I cared. In a rush of gladness, I rose and kissed his cheek, something my formal mother would have never done to my father in public.

  “That’s my Puss. Did I tell you the Spanish custom for hanging out the conjugal sheets?” he asked Hendrik. “You should have seen the lad on the street as we were putting them out. I wager he’d never seen a naked archduchess.”

  Hendrik glanced at me. I had not been naked when we flew the sheets—I had worn my robe at my husband’s bidding. But I put my arm around my husband now, unashamed of anything he would say or do. If it enhanced his story to have me appear naked to my subject, I would hold my tongue. He was lord of this land and I was his lady, and I cared not a fig what other people thought, as long as he loved me.

  Arm in arm, we approached the falconer, who was kneeling in the long wet grass next to the dead heron. The bird lay on its side, its long pale legs, tough as saplings, stretched out uselessly beneath its slender body. Tufts of plumage, a glowing gray above, the velvety white of fresh cream below, ruffled in the wind.

  “Make sure Delilah gets the heart,” Philippe said as a crowd gathered around us. “She does not work for no pay.”

  “Oui, Mijnheer.”

  The falconer rolled the limp bird onto its back and plunged a knife into its pale breast. He cut along the bone, then, as if opening a large oyster, pried it apart, reached in, and slash, slash, cut out the heart. He held up the smooth, fleshy orb.

  “Here! Let me feed her.” The Viscountess put out her gloveless hand.

  With a nod from Philippe, the falconer slid the lump onto her palm.

  She held the organ before Delilah’s beak, as curved and sharp as a sultan’s scimitar. I was not the only one who drew in a breath. The bird could snap off her fingers in a single bite.

  Delilah snatched the heart, and with two shakes of her head tossed it down her gullet.

  Philippe exhaled. “Pieter, give Delilah the legs, too. You,” he told the Viscountess, “save your fingers.” He smiled knowingly. “I am certain they can be put to better use.”

  Some in the hunting party chuckled.

  The Viscountess gazed at him, then spread her palm, smeared with the blood of the heron’s heart. “I am dirty.”

  “We cannot have that.” Philippe put Delilah on the ground to let her hop to the severed legs now lying upon the grass. “Here.” He offered the Viscountess his sleeve of white brocade, hanging from behind his heavy gauntlet.

  “But I must not dirty you, My Lord.”

  “Come now, Aliénor, dirt is never so dirty on me.”

  She gave a silent laugh, then wiped her hand on my husband’s sleeve. She took her time, leaving a bloody smear like that on our conjugal sheets.

  I could not bear to stand by idly. “How chivalrous you are, my husband.”

  Both the Viscountess and Philippe turned as if surprised to find me there, though I was close enough to smell the mud on their clothes.

  “To Philippe the Good!” I said staunchly.

  Our party took up the cry. “To Philippe the Good!”

  My husband beamed, then kissed me on the head, much as he had kissed Delilah, who was pulling the meat of the heron’s leg into bloody strings. I drew in a breath. I had won the first battle for my husband’s attention. I hoped that there would not be so very many more.

  9.

  14 November anno Domini 1496

  Three choristers sang from the balcony above the feasting hall, their voices and the music of the flute and drum accompanying them unheard over the clinking of cutlery, the scrape of benches, and sudden roars of laughter. Dogs trotted under tables set with golden plates, gilded drinking horns, and fanciful ornaments worth a knight’s ransom each. Wine spouted from the breast of a naked woman carved in wood in the most lifelike fashion, down to the swirls of hair on her mound. Tapestries depicting the legend of the Golden Fleece, with Jason’s blond curls picked out in gold thread, rippled on the walls, moved by the drafts that seeped through the windows and walls.

  I glanced at the table set perpendicular to ours, where Don Fadrique sawed at his meat with a frown. His tablemates—among them Philippe’s sister, Marguerite, and Philippe’s grandmother Margaret of York, the Dowager Duchess—dined unselfconsciously, in Marguerite’s case, laughing immodestly at the tales of the gentleman next to her. Meanwhile the Dowager Duchess held forth to a stunned and cowed Fray Diego on the superiority of springtime in England. In the Spains, usually only Mother dined at a table with men, and then only at feasts. Fray Hernando took her to task for even that. If he had his way, Mother would be as cloistered as a nun.

  Here, though, nothing was thought of the mixing of the sexes. Truly, nothing was thought of throwing a feast. There had been one almost every night since our wedding ceremony of state, for every possible reason: for the union of our lands, for our health, for our children, for All Saints’ Day, with a rest the next day to clear our heads and ride to Antwerp. The excuse for celebrating tonight was to say good-bye to Marguerite, who was to ride in a few days to Middelburg and then sail for Spain. Would she find irony in the fact that her new country, while eternally sunny, was direly somber, while her native country, perpetually rainy, was always gay?

  Behind my husband, on a precious piece of silver sculpted into a tree branch, Delilah hunched with her hooded head between her shoulders, feathers fluffed. Antwerp in November was as cold and damp as a Cantabrian cave, and the castle, though blazing with fires on its many hearths, was as chill as the murky waters of the River Scheldt that flowed at its ancient feet. But what the castle lacked in physical warmth, it made up for in conviviality. How I wished for my little sisters to see the place. They would appreciate it, even if my tradition-bound Spanish ladies could not.

  I was thinking of María and Catalina as we rested after the last course of candied fruits, when, next to me, Philippe lifted the decoration perched before me on the table. It was a perfect miniature in gold of the type of carrack that had brought me to my husband’s lands. Tiny golden sailors the size of beetles clung to its gold-wire riggings; gold-leaf flags fluttered from its three
masts; the rails of its fore and aft decks were wrought of delicate filigree. This wondrous little ship rested on the head and hands of a giant mermaid, whose golden naked body served as the vessel’s stem.

  “Do you know what this holds?” he asked. He gave the precious object a gentle shake.

  My gaze went to my husband’s lips. I could feel them upon my neck, upon my shoulder, trailing kisses down my back. Hostias santas, what was wrong with me? I wished to couple every moment. I lifted my eyes.

  “Salt?” I said.

  He laughed. “Only a Spaniard would guess that. Oh, don’t be hurt, Puss. I meant no ill. But you have to admit, the Spanish prefer piety to fun. They have their sights fixed on Heaven, while we Burgundians are content to eat and drink and wallow around here on earth.”

  Even as I wished to protest, an incident from that afternoon came sharply to mind. My train of ladies and I had been about to enter the castle, concluding a foggy day’s ride from Malines, when the Viscountess of Furnes stopped before the arched gate.

  “Your Grace,” she said, “it is the custom here for women who wish to bring babes to their wombs to honor a certain statue before entering.”

  I shifted upon my pillion. It was common to venerate relics and statues of saints in Spain. And I did wish for a child. Even more, I wished to acknowledge, especially to the Viscountess of Furnes, with her exuberant golden curls and overfamiliar ways, that Philippe and I indulged in sexual congress often. Very often.

  “I would not be surprised if a child is already on its way,” I said, “but I shall respect my people’s customs. Where is it?”

  “Above you.”

  I gazed up, my hood falling back. Through the drizzle I saw a small statue, perhaps the size of my forearm, which had been carved in relief over the archway, next to the door. But as I peered closer, I saw that the “blessing” this saint offered was its oversized turgid member, thrust from its body like a taunting tongue. The ladies laughed when I looked down in shock.

  The Viscountess had straightened her pretty face. “You have just met Semini, the Norsemen’s god of fertility. Robust, isn’t he? Not that your womb would need his help.”

  Now Philippe waved the golden ship before me again. “Take another guess. What is in this pretty thing?”

  I tried to get into the spirit of the place. “Aphrodisiacs?”

  On my other side, Hendrik coughed into his hand.

  “Puss, you scandalize me.” Philippe lifted the top of the ship, exposing a sloshing hold full of wine. He swirled the red liquid under my nose. “Smell. Made from good Burgundy grapes.”

  “Mm.”

  He linked arms with me to drink.

  “To good Burgundy grapes!” I exclaimed.

  “To the sweet Spanish mussel.” Philippe kissed me soundly on the cheek, winking at Hendrik, who shook his head as we drank.

  Too fuzzy with wine to ponder what he alluded to, I reached for the other table ornament set before us, a tree no taller than my forearm, its golden limbs bristling with pointed leaves made of a hard gray substance not unlike the Dowager Duchess’s eyes. A topaz as large as a walnut crowned the treetop. I had noticed this decoration at our table at other feasts. Perhaps it was a favorite of my husband’s, though he had not yet used it—there were so many precious cups and filigree-encrusted horns and jeweled ornaments to choose from.

  “Is there wine in this tree, too?”

  “Now she’s going to look for wine in everything,” Philippe said to Hendrik. “Watch your sword, my man—she’ll try to drink from it.”

  Hendrik raised his brows at me. One of his hazel eyes was noticeably larger than the other, adding to his cheerfully awkward appearance. “Whatever it takes to quench your thirst, Madame.”

  Laughing, I lifted the tree by its golden trunk, my long sleeves dragging onto the table. A guard rushed forward.

  “No cause for alarm, Guillaume.” My husband gently took the ornament from my hands, then nodded at the guard, who reluctantly receded into the shadows.

  “What did I do?” I whispered.

  “He takes his job seriously.”

  “Which is good for you, My Lord,” said Hendrik.

  “Which is good for me,” Philippe agreed, “I suppose. Look.” He unscrewed the topaz bauble at the top of the tree, which must have loosened a mechanism in the branches, for he was then able to pluck one of the spiny gray leaves from a golden bough.

  He held it up. “If this turns red when I put it in our wine, you and I have just drunk poison.”

  He dipped the leaf into the red liquid in the ship.

  Wine trickled down his hand as he righted the leaf. The petal remained gray.

  “Evidently, we’re in luck this time,” he said with a laugh.

  “What is that?” I asked in wine-fueled befuddlement.

  “This”—he waved the dripping spear—“is a serpent’s tongue that has turned to stone. A most handy device. It divines poison—very effectively. Truly, one need not dunk it in poison to get it to react. It will start to sweat if poison is near. That’s why my dear good guards think they should keep some on my table.”

  “I have not seen serpents’ tongues in Spain, Monseigneur. We just have tasters.”

  “Well, the tongues are very rare, though one of my huntsmen said they resemble the teeth of a shark he once saw washed up on shore. I don’t know about that. But the guards do take the powers of these serpents’ tongues most seriously and will not brook anyone’s tampering with them. Apparently, not even my own wife’s.”

  “I would never poison you!”

  He grabbed my hand and kissed it. “I know. Who would?”

  The warmth of his lips on my flesh sent a thrill through me. “They do right to protect you, Monseigneur. There are always those who wish to harm those above them. My papa, who would not hurt a flea, was attacked by a mad peasant and wounded most grievously.”

  “That is Spain. This is here. We are all too busy having fun for that sort of thing.” He leaned closer to whisper. “Guillaume and his lot just do it for their pay. They have inherited their positions—they’d scream if we ended them. Besides,” he said, louder, “Antwerp is a lucky place—has been, since a little fellow named Brabo killed the giant”—he turned toward Hendrik—“what was his name?”

  “Druon Antigoon.”

  “—the giant … something-something Antigoon, who was wreaking havoc at the harbor by charging ridiculous tolls and lopping off the hands of those who couldn’t pay. But the bully did not think so much of it when little Brabo came along and chopped off his great brute of a hand and threw it in the Scheldt. That is where the city takes its name, ‘to throw the hand,’ in the Flemish tongue.”

  An excess of wine may bring on an excess of sorrow as quickly as it does an outpouring of joy. Suddenly I was in the depth of despair. I did not understand this place, with its worship of food and drink and pleasure. I came from a land where refreshment was to be taken in moderation, and prayer with greatest zeal. How was I ever to fit in? I missed my sisters—dear María, dreaming of chivalrous men; eager Catalina, always trying to keep up. I missed Papa, with his quiet humor and his self-deprecating ways. I missed Mother, though the thought of how deeply she would disapprove of my current behavior gave me a jolt through my vinous haze.

  “Puss, will you dance?” Philippe pushed back our bench and held out his hand.

  I leaned on his arm as he led me to the assembling dancers, the weight of my skirts and hanging sleeves nearly unmanageable in my dizzy state. Philippe glanced at me, and then, with a mischievous grin, swung me into the jolly swell of sackbut, shawm, and drum.

  10.

  15 November anno Domini 1496

  The somber chanting of the choir echoed from the cold stone vaults of the chapel ceiling. Oily curls of incense snaked through the dank air. Though I kept my gaze on the priest, whose pearl-sewn vestment clicked against the altar as he made the Sign of the Cross over the Host, I could feel the questioning looks of my twelve B
urgundian ladies on me as I walked down the center aisle. Worse, as surely as if I had second sight, I could feel the studied resolve of my twelve Spanish attendants, including Beatriz, not to look at me, as if I were an object of such great horror they feared to cast their gazes upon me.

  I had started out to Mass that morning with both factions after my dressing, a process made arduous by both the Burgundian and the Spanish ladies’ insistence that they should have an equal hand in it. The result of this was that every lace to be tightened, every sleeve point to be tied, and every pin to be fixed in my headdress was an item for negotiation. Indeed, I had been made to stand naked in my drafty chamber, yearning for my warm bed and my husband, who had strolled unconcernedly from the room, until they could agree upon who should be allowed to change my chemise. (The Burgundians, it was decided, for the garment was made of Flemish lace and was a gift from my husband.) As we made our way through the ancient passageways of the Antwerp castle, the footsteps of my retinue ringing from the worn stone flags of the floor, I was already exhausted, although, if I was to be honest, no small part of my weariness was due to the festivities of the night before.

  We were in the cloister that traversed the courtyard, with the chapel bell ringing the call to Mass, when my flock encountered Philippe and his men, two of whom were pissing in the courtyard.

  Bows and curtseys were exchanged among ladies and gentlemen; silence was kept in deference to our preparation for worship. When I gained my husband’s side, he ran his finger down the back of my hand, sending a charge straight to my nether parts. Our eyes met. Without offering explanations to our attendants, we clasped hands and returned in the direction from which I had come, bursting into laughter once we turned into the passage to my chamber and away from the astonished stares of our attendants.

  We did not make it all the way to my chamber. Devouring me with kisses, Philippe pushed me against the door of a storeroom, raked up my skirts, then took me on the spot, even as a thin dog trotted by, unfazed by our animal acts. When we were finished, panting from our exertion, we righted each other’s clothing, and then he led me, glowing and swollen, back through the dark halls to the chapel.