by Lynn Cullen
Her gaze went to the crowd. “Is that not Colón’s boy?”
I scanned the upturned faces.
“Over in front of the Casa de los Picos,” said Mother.
I found Diego standing before the spiked façade of the house. He bowed when he saw me looking. Warmth poured through me like steaming caudle into a cup.
“I would stay away from him,” she said.
I gave a false laugh. “I am never near him.”
She judged me coolly. “Heed my words, Juana: Leave him be.”
“But I do not have him to leave be. I rarely see him. You keep him running as your page. He worships you, you know.”
“I am telling you this, Juana, for your own good. It only makes it worse when you cannot have them.”
Our litter passed under the San Martín gate and entered the lower town, its narrow streets overhung with brick-and-timber houses. I wished to look back—how I longed for a glimpse of him—but fixed my sights instead on the Roman aqueduct just ahead. Its stone arches towered over the buildings of Segovia, out of place, out of scale. Though most believed it to be built by the Romans during the time of the Caesars, some thought it was the work of the Devil. The Devil’s Bridge, they called it. The bridge to the gates of Hell.
“It is best if you immerse yourself in worthy projects,” said Mother. “Pray a lot. Do good things.”
“As much as I wish it, Mother, I cannot be as holy as you.”
“Oh, I am far from holy.”
“And that is why they call you the Catholic King?”
“I was given that absurd title because my ‘friends’ willed it so. It served their purposes.”
I laughed. “Modesty is one of the forms of holiness.”
Mother did not smile. “I am far from modest, and you know it. Yes, I have done some great things. But I have also done some bad ones.”
She lapsed into silence as we drew near the aqueduct and rode along in the shadow of the arches. We lumbered up the steep hill, the arches of the aqueduct diminishing, until at last they fed into a squat stone pumphouse. Just beyond were the brick-and-stone walls of the monastery of San Antonio el Real, the destination of our uncomfortable jaunt. We had come to bring alms.
Once inside the brick walls, I trailed behind Mother and the prioress of the establishment, a tiny woman with the face of a shriveled peach, as they examined the treasures Mother had recently sent. The pieces were magnificent: a Flemish altarpiece, a Brussels tapestry, a painting from a master in Bruges, items of the quality usually reserved for the great cathedrals. Mother obviously preferred the place, though why she should do so above all the other monasteries near Segovia, I did not know. No miracles had happened here; no saints had ever visited. It housed no spectacular relic like the Holy Grail in the monastery of San Juan de la Peña in Papa’s Aragón or the piece of the True Cross in Santo Toribio de Liébana in Asturias. Indeed, the place had originally been the hunting lodge of Mother’s half brother, King Enrique, and only in the past few years had it become a house for the Poor Clares.
“The artisans from your husband’s realms are quite clever,” the prioress said to me as we walked the cool halls. “They are as adept in wood as they are with oils or thread. We thank your mother for granting us so many treasures for our humble monastery.” She took my arm. “Come to the refectory. We have just hung the lovely new painting that your mother has given us.”
“No,” Mother said sharply.
The prioress’s veil brushed her shoulders as she turned in surprise.
“No,” Mother repeated, more gently now. “We should not disturb the sisters’ meal. They are eating now, yes?”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. I’m sorry that they won’t be able to greet you properly. Meals are observed in strictest silence,” she reminded me.
“I understand,” I said.
“It’s my fault,” said Mother. “I was detained by the ambassador to England. I should have come sooner and not interrupted your mealtime.”
“We are honored for Your Majesty to come anytime you please. But I would like Her Highness the Princess to see this since she is here. The sisters are especially glad for it. Now they have something wonderful to ponder when the sister chosen to read must stop to eat.”
Mother argued no further, and soon we arrived at the refectory. The prioress opened the door to a room full of sisters in white and gray, their heads bobbing in the motion of eating, reminding me much of seagulls on the beach at Barcelona. The sisters stopped when they saw us, as did the children sitting among them, halted in the act of bringing their spoons to their mouths. The prioress made a motion with her hands for all to resume eating, which they did in silence. She beckoned me to the wall where the picture hung.
I inspected it briefly—a painting of mourners at the Crucifixion, with the usual doleful faces at which the Flemish artists excelled. As I came away, I saw a dark-haired girl of perhaps five years wave at Mother, who gave her a playful wink. She was a pretty little thing, with olive skin and hooded eyes.
The prioress drew us out of the refectory and shut the door behind us. “Again, I apologize that the sisters were not able to greet you properly.”
“They did right,” said Mother.
The swish of our skirts against tile echoed from the ceiling of the enclosed arcade. “I did not know that children were allowed to live with the sisters,” I said. “Are they … siblings?”
She smiled soothingly. “Now and then a baby comes to us from the outside. We do not ask questions. It is a ministry that we are pleased to perform—it seems to have gained momentum in the years in which you were in the north.”
“The mothers bring the children to you?”
“We don’t see the mothers. We receive the infants as we receive other deliveries from the outside world—through the revolving window by the service entrance.”
“Like a sack of flour?” I asked.
“Well, yes, but much more exciting. Whenever we swing the torno around and find a precious bundle upon it, we feel that the child is Heavensent. You’d be surprised how often that is, perhaps once or twice a year.”
I had heard that unwanted children were often placed on church doorsteps. It was a common practice. But it surprised me that this richly endowed foundation took in orphans so readily. The parents of the girls who joined the order had to pay large dowries.
“Do the mothers ever come to see them?” I asked.
“The mothers? No. Once the child comes to us, it is dead to the world.”
A silence descended. It hung over us, unbroken, until we came to the courtyard, where Mother exclaimed at the roses spilling over the trellises. “So many of them,” she said.
“The ones you gave us five years ago. They have flourished.”
The prioress led us into the sunshine and plucked a flower.
“So sweet,” I said, smelling it.
“A second bloom,” said the prioress. “Even as we give up on seeing another flower for the year, buds are forming quietly on the branches. We are always taken by surprise. Would you like a cutting?”
Soon the tour was over and we returned to our litter.
I sniffed the flower as Mother sank back upon her pillow with a groan.
“Do you know that little girl?” I asked.
She looked at me. “Which little girl?”
“The one who waved at you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it with a grimace. “Get some rest tonight. You’re looking a bit peaked.”
33.
27 August anno Domini 1503
The cocks were still crowing when someone entered my chamber.
Beatriz bolted upright on her cot beside me. “Who goes there?”
I heard a rustle of cloth. “It is only I.”
Beatriz rose and peered through the dim. “Doña María?”
“I am sorry to alarm you.” Mother’s lady stepped closer, clenching her hands. “I wished to bring word to the Princess that her mot
her is ill.”
I rose now, too. “My mother?”
“I thought you should know. She has been vomiting since midnight.”
“We will come directly. Thank you.”
Beatriz called for my robe. When did Mother ever become ill? And for her lady to awaken me so that I should know—I could not remember when anyone had done this. Mother had been short with me at the monastery the day before, and had looked tired, but who wouldn’t be after hunting in the morning and giving a three-hour audience in the afternoon? She had gone straight to chapel when we had returned, and spent much of the evening praying. I wished that Papa would come back from Aragón. He would put a check on her excesses when he was around, cutting short the hours she dwelt on business matters, demanding that she sup with him instead of spending hours on her knees at her prie-dieu.
Soon I was dressed. My ladies pinned Beatriz’s veil to her bandeau, then left to quickly finish their own toilets since they had been called from their beds so abruptly. Katrien arrived, carrying the potion that my husband, in the guise of a caring spouse, had ordered I drink each morning. I downed it in one tortured gulp and handed back the white enameled goblet in which it was invariably served. “What is in this? It gets worse by the day.”
Katrien lowered her face. What I could see of it beneath the white linen wings of her headdress seemed fuller of late. Her girth seemed to have expanded, too, though with her voluminous apron, it was impossible to tell.
She turned away to avoid my gaze. “It is only wine and some herbs that my uncle provides from the kitchen, Mevrouw. They have all been tasted for poison. He drinks a draft before he pours one for you.”
“Poison? Why would you say that? I hadn’t even thought of it.”
She took another quarter-turn away from me, then stiffened when Beatriz stepped in front of her.
“This is not a game,” Beatriz said sternly. “Be still when Your Majesty speaks to you.”
“Yes, juffrouw,” Katrien said coldly.
“Need I remind you that you are serving the future Queen?”
“You need not.” She ducked away from Beatriz and stalked off, her klompen clashing against the tile.
I eased into the chair at my dressing table, relieved to rest. Although I had become used to my weakness, it had not lessened over the months.
“Does it seem that she grows impudent?” said Beatriz, picking up my silver hairbrush. “She will not even face you when she addresses you.” She commenced to brush my hair vigorously.
“She’s never been the most cheerful girl. I don’t know why she stayed with me when Philippe left. She could have gone chasing after him like my Burgundian ladies, though I must admit I would have missed her. We used to talk.”
“I hardly think she could have borne traveling with the Viscountess of Furnes’s train.”
“True. I suppose that was one of the things that made her dear to me. She thought the Burgundian ladies were as ridiculous as I did.”
“There is the matter of her uncle,” said Beatriz. “I suppose she did not wish to leave him.” She stopped brushing. “I just cannot help feeling that something is amiss with her, Your Highness.”
I looked up at her. “The herbs the uncle gives her, you don’t think … ?”
“She’s the one who brought up poison.”
“Don’t even say the word. Why would she want to harm me? Why would anyone? It is mad to think it.”
“Perhaps. But something is awry with her.”
The bells of the cathedral began to clang, marking the hour before Mass. My ladies filed in, some of them with their corsets or headdresses askew from their haste to be ready.
“We go to visit the Queen,” I said, “though I am sure she is well.”
Mother lay upon the Bed of State, a small, still figure under a vast sea of crimson cut velvet. As I drew closer, I saw that her eyes were sunken into darkened sockets, her mouth slack and open. Although her tightly tied coif gave her the innocent air of a babe, it was an old woman’s face within its linen borders.
Her eyes opened. “Juana?”
A chill went through me. I had never seen her in such a weakened state.
“Good heavens,” she said, “are you trying to terrify me with that expression?”
She struggled up onto her elbow, then made a dismissing wave at both my ladies and hers. “Thank you for your concern. You may go. You, too, Beatriz. Thank you,” she croaked as they filed out. She jabbed her pillows as she fought her way upright.
“Mother, you look terrible.”
“Who wouldn’t? I have been up vomiting all night.”
Was not vomiting an effect of poison? I had not thought of it until this moment.
“There’s that face again. It doesn’t make me feel better, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m sure that you are fine.”
“Yes. I am sure that I am. Just give me a little rest. I don’t know what all this fuss is about. Other people get ill.”
“You never do.”
“And I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t ridden in the rain on Tuesday.”
“When has rain ever stopped you? Did I not hear that once, in a downpour, while in the grip of childbirth, with a thousand Moors taking up arms against you, you speared a bear as you rode into battle?”
She gave her pillow an extra jab. “Don’t be smart.”
I smiled, relieved to hear her sound more like her old self. I saw a paper poking out from under her pillow. “What’s that?”
“A letter.” She looked at me guiltily, then held up her chin, cleaved in two by the strings of her cap. “From Fray Hernando.”
“Can’t you let matters of state go, if only for a minute?”
She smiled weakly.
“I am summoning Papa,” I said. “He has been in his lands too long. Surely his generals can handle whatever problems are stirring on the Mediterranean.”
“Bring him here because I spit up? No. I won’t let you bother him. You know how happy he is in his own lands.” She put her hand on her belly and winced.
“You are still sick.”
“I am fine. Go to Mass.”
“I’m calling doctor Soto.”
“He has been called. I sent him away. Save him for the people who really need him.”
“Why are you so stubborn about this? Why won’t you let anyone help you?”
Her bluff expression slipped away. A young girl looked out from her eyes, determined to be brave, although frightened. “You will know why, when you are Queen.”
“I’m not going to be Queen,” I said with a heartiness I did not feel, “because you will not let me.” I kissed her on top of the head. “Take a nap. I’ll come back after Mass.”
The young girl dissolved in Mother’s face. She became the time-embattled leader of men once more. “Good. Pray for me.”
“Very well,” I said, “though that is like praying for a saint.”
“Hardly.”
I kept the smile on my face until I reached the hall and the door was closed firmly behind me. Beatriz was waiting.
“Speak,” I said. “Why do you say nothing? Do you know something of her condition?”
“She is Isabel the Catholic King, as unbreakable as Toledo steel, is she not?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure she will be well.” To say otherwise was unthinkable.
I saw the crowd gathering at the end of the hall. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Your Highness,” called a lady. “Tell us how she is.”
“Tell them she recovers,” I whispered to Beatriz. “I’ll meet you at the chapel.”
I slipped into the adjacent hall, where I could avoid detection by leaving through the unused Throne Room at the end of the passage. The immense expanse of coffered ceiling swallowed the hushed pattering of my footsteps as I made my way across the dim room. People sickened all the time, I told myself, with much graver illnesses, and they regained their health. Mother had one bout of v
omiting and everyone was in a panic. How dependent we all were on the health of Isabel the Catholic King.
I entered the darkened Throne Room, then stopped. Someone had partially unfolded a shutter and was gazing out the window.
Diego Colón stepped back from the window, then visibly gladdened at the sight of me.
I put my hand to my throat. “Don Diego.” I was so relieved to see him that tears rushed into my eyes.
He bowed. “I heard that your mother the Queen was ill. How is she?”
“She will recover.”
“Of course.”
I brushed at my eyes, hoping he had not seen. “You were looking for something.”
“Storks,” he said gently, “I should say.”
I came to the window. “I see none.”
He laughed quietly. I could feel him waiting for me to speak.
I shook my head. “Here I am, upset that my mother suffers a simple ailment, when you have been worried for months about your father and brother.”
“You are right to care for her. She is an extraordinary woman.”
“I have struggled against her all of my life. I thought it was she who kept me at bay, but it’s me. I was the one who never allowed myself to get close to her. I was afraid she would reject me. And so I rejected her first.”
“Go to her. It’s not too late.”
I turned toward him. “How are you so good?”
He looked down at me, his gray-green eyes intense. “If I were truly good, I’d stay away from you. But I can’t.”
“I am glad.”
He tucked a stray lock into my headdress, then laid his hand, firm and warm, on my cheek. “I think of you night and day. You have bewitched me.”
I kissed his hand. “I am sorry.”
He cradled my chin, then tipped my face to his. “Don’t be.” Our lips brushed.
We drew back and beheld each other. Slowly, he bent toward my mouth. Our lips touched, then sought each other deeply.
“Juana!”
I pulled back from him.
Her robe roughly thrown around her, Mother leaned against the door, one hand gripping the frame for support.
“Mother!”
