Reign of Madness

by Lynn Cullen

  “If you were King, you would be poring over those ledgers daily.”

  “Wrong. If I were King, my men would be poring over those ledgers daily. That is one of the benefits of being King.”

  Mother spun her own wool to make Papa’s shirts, presided over her courts of law, and oversaw the plans for the churches, hospitals, and universities rising from the dirt all over her lands, when she could have been taking her ease. What benefits might she be reaping from her labors other than exhaustion? Yet she loved being Queen. She’d wanted the crowns badly, enough to battle for seven years against the nobles who backed her half sister’s claim to them.

  I felt someone’s gaze upon me: Papa, on the other side of Mother. He smiled then lifted his brows at me.

  I turned away. I felt estranged from him again since my abuse at Philippe’s hands. What would he think of his sweet child, now reduced to a slit for a man to brutalize? Philippe had found our new sort of rough coupling to his liking, and was coming to my bed more often. As I sat at this table laden with food and silver, under my gem-studded skirts my loins were swollen and torn.

  Philippe lowered the bite of meat at his mouth. “Puss, I can’t believe it. The Moor who wouldn’t stay dead is here.”

  “What?”

  He gestured with the meat on knifepoint. “Over there. Good God, he’s in your mother’s livery. Is he her fool?” He gestured to his cupbearer. “See that man over there with the tan-colored tent of hair? Get him over here. I want to speak with him.”

  The cupbearer trotted off.

  “Why?” I demanded. “What do you want from him?”

  “Why do you care?”

  The cupbearer spoke to the object of Philippe’s amusement, who looked up, then peered across the hall and, seeing me, beamed.

  Philippe chewed his bite of meat. “He acts as if he knows you.”

  “He does. His name is Juanito. Admiral Colón brought him from the Indies.”

  “A real wildman? Oh, excellent! Now the entertainment starts.”

  Juanito crossed the hall, his face lit with eagerness. He dropped to his knees before us. “My Lady Princess, Doña Juana.”

  I put out my hand. He kissed it hard.

  I could not help smiling. “Philippe, this is don Juanito.”

  “ ‘Don’? You address cannibals like gentlemen?”

  Juanito let go of my hand and kissed my husband’s with equal fervor. “I am your servant, My Lord.”

  Philippe pulled back his hand. “I remember you from the tournament the other week. Next time, you need to stay dead. Do you understand? You nearly ruined the effect.”

  Juanito frowned in apology. “I am sorry. Don Diego told me I should not have done that. But I wished to see the husband of Doña Juana.”

  “You do know him,” Philippe said wonderingly to me.

  Juanito bowed. “I serve the Queen as page now,” he told me.

  “The creatures you Spanish keep at court.” Philippe peered at Juanito. “So, cannibal, tell me, what do people taste like?”

  Juanito smiled apologetically.

  “Are they chewy?”

  “Philippe.”

  “Do you have a hankering for one now?” He stabbed his knife into the slab before him. “All this tiresome beef.”

  “Philippe, it’s not funny.”

  “You side with a monkey, Madame?”

  A trumpet blew, announcing the arrival of yet another course.

  “He knows I am jesting,” Philippe said. “Off you go, there’s a good man.”

  I watched Juanito return to his table and his place next to Diego Colón.

  “What?” Philippe said when I gave him a cool look. “I needed some entertainment. Your mother’s feast is dull going.”

  For the rest of the meal, Philippe chatted with the Duke of Villena, to his right, who had been eyeing him with equal measures of disdain and fascination. After the last plate was removed, Mother surprised us by calling for dancing, though out of respect for the passing of Catalina’s husband, it was to be a somber basse danse. She bade Philippe and me lead the other couples in the gliding steps.

  After several measures, Philippe stopped, then turned me so that we became the end of the line.

  “Will she release us from our misery soon?” he asked, bowing to me in the révérence.

  “Shhh.” On the dais to which they’d retired, Papa sat next to Mother, beating the rhythm of the music on the arms of his throne.

  Philippe followed my gaze. “Won’t she let your father dance?”

  “He could dance. He chooses to stay with her.”

  He looked at my half sister, sitting with her husband. He smirked.

  We moved forward as the next measure commenced. “In spite of what you think,” I said, “on the whole, Papa treats her well.”

  “What are you implying? Don’t I treat you well enough?”

  I drew in a breath. Before I could speak, Philippe lunged to the right and grabbed the Viscountess of Furnes’s wrist as she passed by. She gasped, then laughed. He let go of me and began processing with her. Her partner, the young Marquis of Santillana, gave a flustered bow, then stared after her as if he could not believe she had slipped from his hands. The dancers around me looked away in discomfort that I should be left standing.

  A gentleman came into my side vision. I turned to find Diego Colón, his handsome face hard with seriousness. He held out his arm. “Your Highness. May I have the honor?”

  I was nearly overcome with gratitude at this small gesture. I took his arm, aware of both my shyness and the warmth of his flesh through his sleeve. As we entered the line of dancers, I noticed his hand, balled into a fist.

  I tried to remove all emotion from my voice. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “Because my father was in chains?”

  I remembered the play in which Francisco de Bobadilla imprisoned Colón. I felt my cheeks turn red. “No.”

  “I can see that you heard of it even in far-off Flanders. Of course. The world is eager to bring down a man who excels.”

  “I only meant that I thought you might be in Salamanca.”

  He glanced at me as if to see whether this was true.

  I did not wish to spar with him. I was too weary from my dealings with Philippe. “I see that your father has sent gold from the Indies.” We stepped in time to the music. “The altarpiece at the monastery in Burgos was resplendent with it.”

  “Gold is just the beginning,” he said. “He has found the lands leading to a westward passage—he is going back to expand the route. Do you know how important that is?” He raised my hand at the beat.

  “Yes.” I sighed, then smiled. “There will be more islands to name Juana.”

  His eyes warmed. “Of course.”

  “Truly, I am glad that he has met with more success, and not just because of all the potential Juanas.”

  Diego inclined his head slightly. “Thank you. His success will benefit all of the Spains for generations to come. It will shape the way we trade, and provide unimagined riches to rebuild your parents’ lands. But for me, at this moment, the chance of talking to the real Juana is just as rewarding.”

  I laughed. “Flattery. I could use a bit of it just now. Thank you.”

  “It is not flattery.” His expression was serious.

  I looked away. “You must wish to go with your father to the Indies.”

  “He insists that I stay here.”

  “It is a dangerous journey.”

  We took a step backward. “I don’t care about that,” he said. “But I agree to remain here so that I may continue to learn from your mother. At present, the governorship of the Indies has been given to another person.”

  My embarrassment returned. “Surely you and your father will win back your rightful place as governor.”

  He set his jaw. “That is my plan.”

  “Perhaps your studies at Salamanca will aid you.”

  “You knew that I went there?”

>   I nodded.

  “Did you hear, too, that I was expelled for fighting?”

  I glanced at him in surprise. “No. I did not.”

  We faced each other at the end of the measure, then performed the révérence. “You must think less of me for acting the ruffian.”

  “No!”

  “You should. I was too proud. I have since come to realize that if I were to fight each time I heard my father’s name muddied, I would have no time to work on actually clearing it.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Your mother was kind enough to invite me back as a page. She wished to show her court that she still believed in my father, in spite of his failings. When I first appeared before her, and began to apologize for my black marks at Salamanca, she bade me speak no more of it. She said that to make good steel, the ore must first be put to the fire.”

  “That might be true, but it does not make the fire less hot when one is in it.”

  “No.” He searched my eyes. “It does not.”

  “My Lady Wife.”

  We turned to find Philippe approaching with the Viscountess. The self-satisfied look on my husband’s face became a puzzled scowl when he saw Diego.

  Diego bowed.

  Philippe did not return the courtesy. “Have we met?”

  “Yes,” said Diego. “Twice.”

  The Viscountess’s interested gaze ranged over Diego.

  “Philippe,” I said, “this is the son of Admiral Colón, don Diego.”

  Philippe wavered slightly on his feet. “Thank you for reminding me, Puss. I would like to ask him how he is enjoying his inheritance of mosquitoes.”

  Diego smiled coolly.

  “Counting up your cannibals, are you?” said Philippe. “You might be the first person to get rich by human flesh—no, I take that back. Procuresses already do that with their whores, don’t they?”

  “May I have back my husband, please?” I took Philippe by the arm from the Viscountess. “Pardon me, don Diego, mademoiselle Aliénor.”

  I led Philippe into the line of dancers.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “What else do you expect me to do at this godforsaken picnic?”

  “To not shame yourself and me.”

  “My God, you are a prune. Hendrik!” he bellowed. He struggled to level his eyes at me. “Where’d your mother stash Hendrik?”

  “Perhaps it is time to go to your bed.”

  “Only if you go with me.”

  Did he think his drunken smile was alluring?

  He squinted at Diego, standing beyond the dancers, watching us with concern. “What ho? Does the King of the Cannibals have a taste for my wife?” Blinking to clear his vision, he refocused on me. “Does my little wife have a taste for him, too?”

  “Stop it, Philippe.”

  He lumbered to a halt. “Have I struck a nerve?”

  I moved to turn away, but before I could do so, he thrust his hand into my bodice.

  His beautiful face crumpled into a grimace as he dug his fingers into my breast. “You’re mine. N’est-ce pas?”

  He squeezed again, then let go.

  I clutched at my broken laces.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked the staring dancers. “Cannot a man admire his own wife?”

  They turned away uncomfortably, as if they had witnessed a man beating his horse.

  He led me from the floor. On their dais, Mother clenched Papa’s hand. Papa, in turn, tightened his grip on his scepter, much as Juanito renewed his hold on Diego, wrenching to be freed.

  I leaned against the windowsill, absorbing the moonlight as if it had the power to cleanse. Behind me, Katrien straightened the bedclothes, pretending that there was no stain upon them. My husband had had his pleasure, but instead of falling into a drunken sleep had stumbled off to seek more trouble.

  “Mevrouw, your mother wishes for you to attend a court of justice with her tomorrow. You must get your rest.”

  “Philippe is the one who should preside with her. He’s the one who wants to be King.”

  The moon shone on the stones of the street, dimly illuminating the warren of passageways between the buildings of the quarter. Across the way, the tower of the church of Santo Tomé stood square and silent against a plush black sky spangled with stars. A cat yowled.

  “Mevrouw, unhealthy air rises during the night. Please come to your bed.”

  The clatter of metal on stone severed the quiet, followed by a burst of male laughter.

  Katrien joined me at the window. An oath floated up from the darkness. It was in French.

  Katrien inhaled sharply.

  “You heard Philippe, too.”

  “It is some of his men, that is all.”

  “I have heard my ladies whispering. I know that he and his men roam the streets at night. They cannot keep their hose tied. There will be trouble. These Burgundian men don’t understand how the Spaniards value their women’s chastity.”

  “Surely the Prince is not among them tonight.”

  I glanced at her. “Tonight?”

  She would not meet my eyes. “He is in bed, feeling the effects of his food and drink. You must go to bed, too. You will wish for this sleep in the morning.”

  The voices returned.

  “Mevrouw.”

  “Shhh. That is Philippe. Listen.”

  Into the gauzy night air floated a man’s teasing voice: “Ronde ogen.”

  I looked at Katrien. “Isn’t that what he called you?”

  “He’s calling a cat. If that is him. Come, Mevrouw. You are so tired.”

  I let her pull me across the cool tiles. She tucked me in linen that had been pressed with flowers—I sniffed—roses. I breathed in their scent and listened, but not for my drunken husband, calling for cats and God knows what else. No, I listened, with all the ridiculous romantic fervor of my poor dear María, for what? For someone who would never come?

  I drifted into the forgiving bosom of slumber and, for a few unconscious hours, was at peace.

  27.

  18 June anno Domini 1502

  It was a sight worth savoring during those months in Toledo: Philippe slumped glassy-eyed over the parchment that Mother’s secretary placed before him, while Mother, her heavy green reading lenses perched on her nose, explained to him the significance of the document.

  He massaged his temples as if to soothe a massive headache. His exasperated voice echoed from the coffered timber ceiling. “Truly, does it matter how many reales are allowed each day for bread for the pilgrims in the hospital at Santiago de Compostela?”

  Mother looked over black rims as thick as a finger. “Yes.”

  He gazed over the document with a sigh. “Isn’t there someone else who can do this? Must you oversee every hospital giving alms to every grubby pilgrim in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Yes. And you must, too, as King.”

  “According to your Cortes, I am only to be consort.”

  “And do you as consort not wish to know what is afoot in your lands?”

  His look of despair dissolved into a smile when he saw me watching from the other side of the hall. “Puss, come in here. You think this is all nonsense, don’t you?”

  I crossed the room and took the empty seat next to him at the table. “Sorry to be late, Mother. I was unwell.”

  She took off her eyeglasses and studied me.

  I scanned the document. “Where are we?” I had vomited after Mass and felt desperate for sleep—familiar symptoms whose implication sent a charge of terror through me. I would not be allowed to return to Flanders if I was with child. The journey would be too risky.

  “Perhaps you could take over for me,” said Philippe.

  “Do, Juana,” Mother said airily. “If he is going to content himself with a minor role in governing our lands, you had better be prepared to take the reins by yourself.”

  “The King is not here,” he said, as if that were a reason that he himself should not be subjected to
this torture.

  “The King,” Mother said firmly, “is attending to other things.”

  Philippe sat back and folded his arms over his chest, letting it be known that if he must be there, it was under protest.

  Several charters, three dozen petitions, and at least five rounds of cathedral bells marking the quarter-hour later, we were released, and then only after Mother had received a letter from Fray Hernando de Talavera. He had been sent to Granada before I had gone to wed Philippe. Evidently, his absence was still keenly felt, for she dismissed us, then closeted herself in an inner chamber, leaving us to do whatever we wished. I followed Philippe as he strode through the pillared arcade of the palace.

  “Cabinet meetings every Tuesday, conferences with the royal auditor on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays holed up signing petitions and documents, and Fridays listening to ministers drone on about financial matters—by Saint John, the woman takes no break. And on top of that, she prays the hours whenever she can and, God forbid, does not miss a daily Mass. What a miserable life!”

  He turned around to let me catch up. “Your father, now, he has the right idea. You don’t find him sitting in the counting room, discussing how much should be allowed for alms for the poor in some dusty godforsaken town in León.”

  “Oh, you can find him in his counting room when he is in Zaragoza. He is quite particular about how matters go in Aragón, as those are the lands he inherited from his father.”

  “That’s because he has power there. How do you expect me to take an interest in this place if I am second in power to you?”

  “Neither of us truly has to worry about ruling. My mother has no plans of admitting her mortality soon.”

  “Well, when she does, you should leave it all for me to handle. I am experienced in ruling my own realms. You could be free to do whatever you desire—care for the children, sew shirts, spin wool.”

  “Whatever you wish, Monseigneur.” It was easy to agree to something that was never going to come to pass. I, too, could have a happy relationship with the word “yes.”

  We neared the exit of the palace, where the guards awaited with raised halberds. “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Where are we going, you should ask.” He led me into the hot white sunshine.