by Lynn Cullen
“You know, dear,” the Dowager said, “crying won’t bring him back.”
“No, Madame.”
“All the sobbing in the world couldn’t raise my Charles from that frozen ditch.” She looked pointedly at the portrait of her husband hanging on the purple-taffeta-clad wall. His was a coarse face, caught in a suspicious slight smile. The sullen eyes spoke of obstinacy and impatience. His thick lips were those of a brute. Well I knew how painters idealized their subjects. If this was the glossed-over version of the man, what kind of terror had he been in real life?
“Rogier van der Weyden did it,” she said when she saw me looking. “You’d do well to collect his work. It will show up nicely on your ledgers. I have snapped up two copies of his Descent from the Cross—good moneymakers.” She flicked her veil from her cheek. “As I was saying. I cried and cried. There went my chance at having children. There went my chance at enjoying a husband’s love. My title as Duchess went straight to Philippe’s mother, Mary. Charles had been that close to winning the lands that he needed to make him the first King of Burgundy, and now I had no more hope of being a queen. It was disappointing, to say the least. I didn’t know if I was to be sent home or not, and to what? It was a sticky time in England. My brother Edward was on the throne, but my brother George, who should have known better, was putting it about that he himself should be wearing the crown. It was a surprise to no one that George had been drowned in a butt of malmsey—well, perhaps the malmsey part was a shock.”
“Aren’t you glad you stayed here,” Philippe said flatly.
The Dowager scowled at Delilah, now stepping from Philippe’s fist, first one claw and then the other, onto the back of the chair at the desk.
“You are the one who should be glad, boy!” she exclaimed, alarming me with her vehemence. “I don’t know what your mother would have done without me. I made her marry your father. She fancied herself sporting in the marital sheets with the handsome French nobody who was wooing her, but I soon disabused her of that. Not when Maximilian was such a good catch. His father, Frederick, may have been Holy Roman Emperor, but all his wars had emptied his coffers. Maximilian was as poor as a church rat when we met him at Trier. But I knew ambition and potential when I saw it. Even though I had to pay his way here—who do you think paid for Maxi’s clothes for the wedding?—I knew he was a good investment. Though I myself was just a widow struggling to hold on to her few properties.”
I gazed at the paintings by Hugo van der Goes, Hans Memling, and Jan van Eyck wrung from across the duchy, at the ranks of illuminated books locked behind a wrought-iron grille, at the desk inlaid with precious ivory. Beyond the mullioned windows stretched acres of manicured gardens, orchards, and forests for hunting, all the way to the river.
“I’d venture to say you’ve done well for yourself, Grand-mère, for a poor defenseless widow.”
The Dowager pretended not to hear Philippe. “I was thinking of you and Marguerite even before you were born. If your mother, with my duchy as her dowry, married the Emperor Frederick’s son, surely old Frederick would make Maxi king. And I was right. Nine years later Maxi was King of the Romans—a nice title. Now he’s Emperor. You will inherit his kingship and all his holdings one day. And you can thank me when you get them.”
“The King of the Romans has no true subjects,” said Philippe. “It’s an empty title. Besides, I’d rather have my father alive.”
The Dowager scratched at the velvet of her chair arm with her fingernail. “Generous sentiment for a son whose father prefers to putter around his castle in Tyrol than see his own boy. When was the last time he visited you?”
“He’ll come when he has grandchildren,” said Philippe.
I looked away. For all of its being plumbed, my womb still showed no signs of quickening. As much as he loved me now, at what point would Philippe consider me a poor bargain, as bad a value as a picture by an unknown painter in the Dowager’s collection? What would become of me then?
“You should have seen this duchy when I first arrived. Richest land in the world. France, even England—no one could touch its wealth.” The Dowager stroked her veil dreamily. “The feasts and tournaments we would have! People are still talking about my wedding celebration. There was plenty of treasure about, in addition to that ridiculous Golden Tree. Took fifty-two dwarves to carry it in—where in the world did they find so many? I swear Charles used to breed them—or perhaps his father did. Old Duke Philippe had his hands into everything. Now look at the duchy. Half your towns are out of your control, and all you care about is hunting.”
“I’m not the fool you think I am, Grand-mère. Control means war. And you’ve seen what war earns a man—his head split in two and a permanent view of a ditch. You know what they say about your husband?”
“Your grandfather, I’ll remind you, so watch it.”
“That he never had one minute to enjoy any of the things he worked so fiendishly to own. He had sixty-five ambling palfreys that he had fed, curried, and exercised, yet he never took them out on a single jaunt. He had a whole menagerie of beasts in Brussels—he kept a lion in the castle courtyard—and never saw a one of them. Heaven forbid that he get down to his castle at Hesdin, with its trick fountains that sprayed the ladies from below, and mechanical contrivances that floured unsuspecting visitors from above. Such merriment was certainly not worth his valuable time. His father had a little workshop in which he played with making clogs, repairing glasses, soldering broken knives, that kind of thing. Your husband—my grandfather—laughed at him for tinkering with his toys, and destroyed the whole kit when he died.”
“You are getting carried away here. What is your point?”
“My point is that it was all fight, fight, fight, and then he was dead. Did you ever even see the man?”
She tossed back her veil. “I saw him enough.”
“Well, I myself would rather enjoy my life. I am proud that I gave back the town burghers their rights and privileges and that they, in turn, love me.”
“You think they love you, because they call you ‘Philippe, Believer in Counsel’? ‘Believing in counsel’ equals letting them do whatever they suggest. They can get you to do anything they want.”
“That’s not true! They love me because I will actually listen to them.”
“Love. Love! What is this need for love? No Caesar has ever come to power because he was loved. Feared, maybe. Yes, fear has put more than a few people on the throne. You ought to talk to Juana’s mother about it. Could you please get that bird off my chair?”
I was taken aback. Mother terrified me, because I feared her opinion of me. But she had won her subjects over with her care for them and her strength. She was so loved by the people that the title Queen was not good enough—they called her their King. Fear had not put Isabel of Castile on the throne … had it?
Philippe offered his wrist to Delilah, who stepped onto it with the grace of a princess. “You had better tell Juana what you were thinking. She is probably wondering what all this is about.”
The Dowager sniffed, then grimaced at me. “I am sorry about your brother’s death. I know how it feels—I lost one of my brothers and my father when I was but a girl of fourteen. You need to rest. And most likely to be bled. Copiously. My surgeons can do the trick. I’ve got the best one in all of Flanders. You’d do well to take his advice on diet and exercise. At any rate, I would like you to tarry here in your time of sorrow—past the prescribed period of mourning, I would recommend. You need to get well, to get strong … to get pregnant.” She noted my downturned eyes before continuing. “I shall give you my chambers, permanently, and will move to the little set of rooms by the river.”
“Grand-mère!” Philipped exclaimed. “I did not know that you wished to give us your rooms. Please, we cannot take them.”
She waved him off. “I insist. Heaven knows, this palace is too much for a poor widow like me. I would like to give it all, from mortar to mullions, to you both. It is my gift, just for
the giving.”
“Madame,” I said, “that is too generous.” These chambers were some of the most sumptuous in the world. Surely there would be a price to be paid to have them, and sooner or later the tally would come due.
“Do not worry about me. I shall be fine over there. My needs are humble.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Enjoy.”
“Madame, I”—I glanced at Philippe—“we don’t know how to thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary.”
Philippe went to the window and looked out over the grounds. “I have always loved this palace.”
“I am glad to see that I’ve cheered you.”
I felt not cheered but trapped, the snare made all the tighter by my husband’s glad acceptance of the bait. “You are most kind, Madame.”
“Yes. Well. It is a sad time. But perhaps something good can come of your loss.”
Good? When Juan died, the Spains had been robbed of their fairest flower, a tragedy beyond reckoning for my family.
“We can cry,” said the Dowager, “or we can live. Which would you rather do?”
Philippe blew on the top of Delilah’s head, ruffling her short white feathers. “Get on with it, Grand-mère. Please.”
The Dowager gave him a stern look before continuing. “Very well. To put it simply, Philippe must now declare himself Prince of Asturias. It is his right and duty to do so.”
“Prince of Asturias?” I cried. “I beg your pardon, Madame, but only Mother and the Cortes of Castile can grant that title. It is the title for whoever is next in line for the throne.”
“And who is that? Marguerite’s child—if she has a son. If she is pregnant. A lot of ifs, when there is a vital young man right here.”
“Women are allowed to reign in Castile. My sister Isabel is next in line if Marguerite should not have a child. And this isn’t something that needs to be settled now. There is time to establish who will inherit the crowns. My parents are robust and healthy.”
The Dowager raised her hairless brows, suggesting otherwise.
“Puss,” said Philippe, “you don’t have to give me the title.”
The Dowager shook her head. “Why shouldn’t she? What harm would come of it? As Juana says herself, this is not a burning issue. Just a show of respect toward her husband.” She peered at me, her gray eyes bright as wet stones. “You do want Philippe to have the honor, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do, but—”
“Do you hesitate because you want the title for yourself? As you said, women can rule in the Spains.”
“I shall never rule.”
“You won’t with an attitude like that. Any ambitious relative with a claim will pass you right by. But just because you are not up to the challenge of ruling does not mean you should keep Philippe from it.”
“I do not wish to keep Philippe—”
“Perhaps you would like it better if you both took the title, like your parents. ‘The Catholic Kings’—isn’t that nice? ‘The Princes of Asturias.’ I like it.”
“But—”
“I should think you would want to share all the rights and privileges that should come your way with Philippe.”
“I do, but—”
“Then it is settled. You do have the power to make such a claim, don’t you?”
To say no was to admit I was a powerless girl.
The Dowager spread her hands. “It is just a name.”
I closed my eyes. I could see my wrathful mother, exclaiming to her ministers about my arrogant, spiteful, ignorant stupidity. Persons did not name themselves Prince. It is bestowed on them by the Cortes. Where did she get this notion? Had she not been paying attention at court?
I pictured Papa. He would not speak out against his foolhardy daughter. But it was not because he championed me. No, it was because he feared to speak up. Oh, Papa, an anvil never breaks, but it does not move, either. It may take blows and blows and blows, yet it will never accomplish anything.
“Truly,” said Philippe, “you don’t have to, Puss. I am happy enough as is.”
The Dowager laughed. “Honestly, Philippe. Do you think of what you say? In the history of mankind, has there ever been a single soul who was happy enough ‘as is’?”
I had the power to do this for Philippe. I had the power to do something besides watch and listen. I was not an anvil. I didn’t know what I was, but it was not an anvil.
I opened my eyes. “Very well, Madame. I will do it.”
14.
11 December anno Domini 1497
More water, Katrien.”
Water splashed onto her wooden klompen as she lifted her bucket from the fireplace. Stray drops hissed in the great roaring conflagration she had built to keep me warm. “Ja, Mevrouw. Now coming.”
I sank lower into the copper tub, feeling guilty about the work I had caused her. But I did love a bath, and it was one of the few activities that court custom had not turned into a ritualized ceremony, mainly because taking baths in the winter had not been considered by my husband’s Burgundian ancestors. The need to make all my activities into a show had come to an excruciating head during my period of mourning for Juan. If I, by tradition, was required to sit at the foot of my bed for six weeks, my sixteen ladies-in-waiting (twelve Burgundians, three Spanish, and Beatriz, with a book in hand) insisted on sitting there with me. I was not allowed to read or make music or, if I had been a person inclined to do so, spin wool, but they could. And so I had been trapped in the beautiful rooms the Dowager had given me, listening to their banter, cringing at their songs, and going out of my mind with boredom while my husband was free to hunt, play tennis, or do whatever he pleased. I might as well have been buried alive.
When I was finally released from the prison of my mourning, freedom meant walking the frost-covered grounds with my ladies in tow, their servants following like drab ducklings. If there were any deer in the park, I never saw them. Not even the crows stuck around when a troop of gabbling ladies approached. Not that the ladies’ gabbling was directed at me. In spite of all my efforts to get into the spirit of Philippe’s court, I was still an outsider to the Burgundian ladies, and to my remaining Spanish ladies, save dear Beatriz, a disgrace.
So you can see why that afternoon, though it had been more than a week since the mourning period for my brother had passed, it suddenly became necessary for me to claim a private hour soaking before the fire. To achieve this, I’d had to tell my band that I was overcome with a headache and needed to be left alone. Madame de Hallewin insisted upon calling a physician, but I insisted even more strongly that doing so would only worsen my pain. The Viscountess of Furnes suggested, wryly, that she call a priest. I assured her that I should be fine, given a few hours in darkness. While the other ladies murmured their concern, Beatriz only watched me closely. I told them all that if I needed to retain anyone to attend to my needs, it would be Katrien, who then lifted her head in surprise from where she knelt at the fire. That way I should show preference to neither my Burgundian nor my Spanish ladies, I explained. Stalemated, they had left, after which time poor Katrien scoured the palace for a hip bath and hauled splashing buckets up two flights of stairs. Philippe need not know I was unattended. Surely he was busy at sport.
Now I hunkered lower in my tub. The fireplace in the former bedroom of the Dowager was as large as a shepherd’s hut, and the chamber walls were hung with tapestries, but not even Hell could keep its heat in mid-December in Malines.
“Here comes.”
The hot water burned soothingly through my wet shift as Katrien poured it over me. When her bucket was empty, she stood back.
“Is it me, Katrien, or do the Burgundian ladies disrespect me as much as I think?”
She cast down her gaze. A dog caught eating off the table would not have looked more trapped.
“You can tell me the truth, Katrien. I know that we have not truly spoken, but I should like to be friends. I promise, I shall be good to you.”
She wiped he
r hands on her apron, her mouth pursed.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to put you in an uncomfortable position.” I plucked at my wet chemise and thought. “May I ask this, then—how do I get their respect?”
She swallowed, then frowned, before speaking at last. “They respect no one but themselves, Mevrouw. Not the Spanish, not the Flemish, no one.”
“That is for certain. One must be born into the ruling families of old Burgundy, or forget it. What I wonder is, has anyone told them that Burgundy is gone? As rich and fabled as was the duchy, consult the maps—it has disappeared. It is part of the French King’s lands now. Only the Netherlands remain. The duchy ceased when Philippe’s mother died, the last of the Burgundian line. Call himself Duke of Burgundy all he wants, Philippe is a Habsburg, like his father.”
“Do not tell him that,” Katrien murmured, then glanced at me, scared.
I burst into laughter. “Oh, we definitely shall not. We must not burst the bubble of the new Philippe the Good.”
“Mevrouw,” she breathed, scandalized.
I sank lower into my tub. “This land is mad. It is the one place in Christendom where the Seven Deadly Sins are considered virtues. I wonder if Mother knew just what kind of place she was sending me to.”
“Mevrouw?”
I let water trail from my fingertips. “Yes?”
“I found this when I was changing the sheets.” She pulled a letter from her apron.
I sighed. It was from Mother. I had received it that morning, and as my ladies stared, had popped it under my mattress. I had not wished to open it. Likely Mother was responding to my claim to the titles of Princes of Asturias, for which I was duly ashamed. Not only was it improper, but monstrously cold. How heartless I must seem, grabbing at titles, when my dear brother had just died. If only she knew how much I grieved for him.
“Do you not wish to read it?”
Sighing, I held out my hand.
Katrien placed the folded paper in it. “Would you like my knife?”
