Reign of Madness (32 page)

“I don’t fear him, but for your safety . . .” He grasped both my hands, then kissed them twice. “My love, until I can come for you.” He released my hands by degrees, then, with a kiss to my fingertips, turned and left.

My heart was still aglow when, in half the turning of a quarter-hour glass, Philippe swaggered into the room.

“Looks like the Cortes are ready to make a good ruling,” he said in a buoyant voice. “Tomorrow I shall be King with full powers, not some damn consort. God, I wish Grand-mère could see me.”

“Yes.”

He peered at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“No. Something is wrong. You look like you saw a spirit.” His handsome face became pinched with fear. He glanced over his shoulder, then laughed. “As if old Isabel could rise from her grave. Not even that old battle-ax could manage that.”

42.

11 July anno Domini 1506

L
onging, I supposed, for the embraces of his teenaged bride, Papa left the next day at dawn. And so as bells rang overhead, it was I who joined Philippe under the Canopy of State at the church steps that morning. With our fine robes trailing behind us, we processed from Mass to the palace, I searching the prostrate crowd for Diego, both hoping and fearing that he would be there, and Philippe looking down on his subjects with a satisfied smile curving his puffed lips. He insisted on parading across the plaza as if we were already King and Queen, though the Cortes had yet to rule. A decision was expected that day. For Philippe, final approval could not come quickly enough. I myself dreaded it. With full powers, what kind of monster would he become? The sweet Philippe, the youth who loved saying yes, had all but been subsumed within the imperious glutton to whom no one dared say no. Heaven help the Spanish people who would have him as their King.

Once inside the stone walls of the palace, we proceeded to the staircase that led to my quarters. There the canopy was lowered and pretence of our happy union was abandoned. Philippe turned his back to me as one of his men removed his robe. I made to go upstairs.

Philippe caught my wrist.

I turned around.

He smiled, almost nervously. “I wonder if you would like to go hunting. I’m training a new falcon.”

“What happened to Delilah?”

“I like new things. So are you coming?”

I looked down at my captured wrist, then into his eyes. “No. Thank you.”

His smile disappeared. “Yes. Stupid of me to ask. You hate birds.”

I wished to laugh.

He let me go. “It won’t do for my Queen to hate me, you know,” he said coldly.

I was mindful of the gazes of his guards. “I don’t hate you, Philippe.”

He shrugged with a nonchalance that did not quite reach his eyes. “It won’t do for my Queen to despise me, then.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m not a fool, Juana.”

“It’s not that I don’t wish for”—I sought words—“another way of being.”

“I wish for that, too!”

I gazed at his lovely golden face, so cruel in its innocence. He seemed to have no recollection of the hurt and shame he had inflicted on me over the years. He was genuinely puzzled why I should be reluctant to be near him.

“I want to be closer to you, Philippe. I want us to be happy together. But I’m not sure that it is possible.”

“Of course it is.” He put his hands on my breasts, then nuzzled my neck.

I shied as does a horse newly broken. Knowing that the guards were watching only heightened my discomfort. “Can we not ever simply talk?”

“Talk?” he said, his breath hot against my skin. “What is the fun in that?”

“You would be surprised.”

“Plenty of women want to do more than just chat with me. But it’s you whom I want to be with.” He ran his hands down my body, then stopped.

“What is this?” He pulled back and placed his palms about my belly as if gauging its girth. “You are thick. I have felt this upon you before. Are you with child?”

The guards leaned on their halberds, watching with interest. I held my breath, enduring his examination like a mare in a marketplace.

“Why did you not tell me?” He stopped his groping. His surprise sharpened into angry suspicion. “Is it another man’s? By God, I’ll kill you both.”

“There is no other. Remember,” I said under my breath, “you took me by force on the ship.”

The pouches by his mouth drew into tight lines. “It is hardly by force if it’s one’s wife.” He glanced at his men. One side of his mouth curled in a smile. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

I turned away my head. He pushed it forward.

“Be glad for this child. It makes me look good to have my wife fat with my seed. I will show you much honor.”

He was taking the throne that was rightfully mine, the throne that my mother wished me to have, and I was to be glad to play the role of his broodmare? “How nice.”

He waved at his guards. “Get out of here! All of you. Now.” He turned to me as they clanked back in the direction from which we had come. “Damn it, woman, why can’t you ever be proud of me? Would it kill you to acknowledge, just once, all that I have achieved?”

“I want to be proud.”

“You ‘want’ to be?” His voice was sour now. “Isn’t that kind? So damned high and mighty.”

At that moment Katrien, head down and arms hugging her apron top, descended the stairs with Beatriz. Both drew up short at the sight of Philippe and me.

I pulled away from him. “Beatriz? You have come back!”

She did not smile. Not taking her gaze from Philippe, she told Katrien, “Stay where you are.”

Katrien glanced about as if weighing her escape.

The strangeness of this scene was lost on me in my joy of seeing Beatriz. I held out my arms to her. “What is the matter with you? Come here! Oh, it’s been too long.”

Eyeing Philippe, she came down the steps, her nun’s habit rustling. She dropped to her knees to kiss my hand.

“What are you doing?” I scolded affectionately. I lifted her and clasped her in an embrace. The coarse material of her veil was rough against my cheek as I pressed her to me. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Philippe hung his hand before her. “Nun, do you forget to pay homage to your King?”

She looked at him from my arms. “I see no King.”

I winced. Why did she risk giving Philippe offense?

I shifted her out of his reach. “Look at you! You are beside yourself with excitement. What is it? Did the scholars accept your translation?”

“I did not go to Salamanca.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I went to Segovia.”

Katrien glanced up.

“Were the scholars in Segovia?” I asked.

“I did not go to see scholars, Your Majesty. I went to speak to the steward of the palace.”

Philippe lowered his lids halfway over his eyes in a suave smile. “Nun, you appear to be overheated. Girl,” he told Katrien, “bring this holy lady a dipper.”

“I would take no drink from either of your hands,” Beatriz said.

Philippe’s smile faded. “I am a reasonable man. But you push me.”

Beatriz removed herself from my protection to face him. “I found the cup from which you had My Lady served the ‘healing’ potion. The steward let me keep it, which was quite useful when I took it to an alchemist to test it for its properties. It seems the paint upon it was composed largely of lead.”

“Interesting,” Philippe said. He rolled his eyes. “Not really.”

“Are you aware, Señor, of the properties of lead?”

Philippe turned to me. “I tire of her strange talk. My hunt awaits me.” He patted my cheek. “Take care of my child.”

“You are aware of these properties,” Beatriz said, more shrilly now. “You have a book in your library in Malines that explains them. There was a note as well.”

He laughed. “I don’t care to read.”

“I know. But others do. You knowingly gave My Lady a potion expecting that it would weaken her.”

“Why would I weaken my own wife?” He put his hand on the small of my back, sending a chill up my spine. “Especially one who so readily grows my seed.”

Beatriz’s dark eyes flashed with ire. “Do not insult me.”

“Why in the world would I care about insulting you? Indeed, I’m about to have you dragged away by my guards. But news of my wife’s condition has put me in a good mood. So to answer your mad accusation, I wasn’t even in the Spains.”

“Yes. That was very convenient, wasn’t it? But Katrien was.”

“I didn’t know,” Katrien whispered.

Philippe looked up at her and snorted. “Don’t worry, Round Eyes, there is nothing to know.”

“I am going to the Cortes,” Beatriz announced. “I have the cup.”

Philippe’s pretty lips deflated into a flat angry line. “Show me.”

“It is not with me. I would not be so stupid. It’s in a safe place. I’m not the only one who knows. Someone else knows, too.”

“Oh?” said Philippe. “Too bad. This someone will come to regret that.”

“I shall tell everyone.”

He laughed. “Who are they going to believe? A false nun who is mad enough to think that she is smarter than a man? Or their King, who gives them gifts and feasts and his greatest love?” He raised his golden brows at me. “Who would you believe?”

My blood pounded in my head. To accuse him directly could only come to grief. I had to remove Beatriz from harm’s way before he struck.

“I wish to rest now.” I put my hand to my belly. “The baby.”

A mongrel dog trotted into the passageway, its nails clicking on the tiles. It sniffed the floor, oblivious of the tense scene before it.

Philippe gazed at me, his eyes half closed. “Yes,” he said. “Go rest.”

I took Beatriz’s arm. I could smell the fear radiating from the folds of her habit as I edged us toward the stairs.

I placed my foot upon the tread. I took one step, then another.

I felt a tug. Beatriz had stopped.

Philippe gripped the hem of her robe. “Just a minute.”

“Philippe—”

“Go on, Juana. I need to have a word with your lady.”

“No, Philippe!”

The mongrel looked up from its sniffing.

“Nun, why is it that you’ve never taken a husband? With that fire in your eyes, you are quite comely.”

“Guards!” I screamed. “Help us!”

He grabbed Beatriz’s ankle. “Damn it, Juana. You made me do this.” He pulled Beatriz toward him as she tried to scramble up the steps.

Guards swarmed down the corridor, their armor clashing. The dog skittered off, tail between its legs. Katrien bounded up the stairs and was seized by a guard.

The men closed ranks around us. Panting, I looked from face to face—German, all of them. Was there not a single Spanish guard in all of Valladolid?

Philippe shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. The Queen is suffering from one of her”—he sighed—“ jealous fits. Could you please escort her and her wench to her chamber? Be gentle, if you might.”

A man with a thick ginger mustache wrapped his gauntleted hand around my arm. He smelled of steel and horse manure.

“Beatriz, you are coming, too!” I tried to calm my breathing. In my chambers, we could wait out Philippe’s wrath. I would beg Beatriz to abandon her claim. No good could come from it. His revenge would be worse than any gratification gained from exposing him. She could recant, then we would be quiet. Soon he would be distracted by the Cortes’ announcement of his kingship, and all might be forgotten.

“Not her.” Philippe looked upon Beatriz, pinned before him by two guards.

He gestured distractedly at the men. “Leave us for a moment.”

“Philippe,” I said between gritted teeth, “no!”

Beatriz raised her chin in defiance. A solitary tear rolled down her face and soaked into the cloth of her wimple.

“Truly it is a pity,” Philippe said to his men. “Why do so many of the women who have fallen across my bed go mad with possessiveness? No one can ever believe a word that they say.”

He frowned up the stairs at the guards holding Katrien and me. “What are you waiting for? Help the Queen to her room.”

I was led off, struggling.

He smiled at Beatriz. “So. Nun.”

43.

25 September anno Domini 1506

F
all in Burgos is a melancholy season. Along the river, the leaves of the poplar trees curl, showing their silver undersides, as if surrendering to their imminent fate. In the woods, the wild roses are poor things, headless, brown, and dry, their former glory unimaginable. Storks pass overhead in the evening in groups of three or four, their departure made all the more wrenching by the beauty of the rising moon bathing their white bellies in a mellow amber light. A change is coming, and all of nature knows it. Even locked within my chambers, I could feel it, too.

Yet for a little moment that morning, the sorrow of impending change abated. Sunshine beamed through the arched windows of the Casa del Cordón, carrying with it a kind of forgetfulness of all things bad. Who could believe the long days of summer were shortening into winter when such soothing rays warmed one’s face? The sunlight left me in its caress to spill in broad swaths across the tiled floor, across a sleeping dog, across Katrien’s knees as she sat mending, across the back of my son Fernando, pulling a pair of bronze horses on wheels during the one daily visit that Philippe would allow him.

I heard the latch being undone at my door. Not turning from the window, I opened my eyes and gazed before me.

Down on the court beyond the garden, Philippe and don Juan Manuel, his new favorite, were engaged in a brisk game of tennis. Even from this distance, I could see the lean lines of Philippe’s body, hardened by days devoted to riding and sport. At twenty-eight, he was in the prime of his life, as handsome, with his golden skin and laughing blue eyes, as any man in the kingdoms. He had got five children upon me; the sixth tapped from within my belly like a restless prisoner. I would have desired the man—so many did—had he possessed a beating heart.

The door opened. I saw the glint of the German guard’s helmet behind Beatriz as she walked into the room.

“Beatriz, where have you been?” Unlike me, allowed to attend only Mass and other public functions, and only then to give the impression that I was free to come and go, Beatriz was truly at her liberty, and had been all summer.

Now she passed through a band of sunlight as she came to kiss my hand. We embraced. She smiled upon Fernando, pulling his horses and neighing to himself, before she spoke.

“I am sorry to have been away so long, Your Majesty. I don’t like to leave you alone.”

“I’m not alone,” I said with cheerfulness I did not feel. We both glanced at Katrien, who looked up from her mending. Beatriz frowned. She never quite believed Katrien’s insistence that she had no knowledge of the toxic properties of the white-painted cup, nor her claims that she was only acting on orders from her master to provide the healing tonic.

Fernando whinnied to himself, then crashed together his horses. A howl went up. I crossed over and knelt beside him. He showed me his hurt finger.

“Did you pinch it between your horses?” Kissing his sweatdampened brow, I picked him up and took him to the window.

He pointed beyond the gardens. “Papa,” he announced. He looked up at me with a watery smile.

“Yes.” There was his papa, King of the Spains, Archduke of Burgundy, ruler of the most powerful dominions in the world. He was a man who had nothing to fear from anyone, certainly not one Beatriz Galindo, would-be Latinist, with her seemingly deranged accusation that he intended to sicken his own wife with a leaden cup. In fact, he allowed the poor mad woman to spout her theory to anyone and everyone, after which he would shake his head with a condescending smile.
This is what comes of a woman’s seeking to untangle Latin like a man—her brain is quite undone. She has become fixed upon me in her madness.
He would wink before continuing.
I never should have given in to her,
n’est-ce pas?

Beatriz patted Fernando’s plump arm. “Your Majesty?” she said to me.

“I want down,” said Fernando.

One kiss more, and I returned him to his toy horses.

“Yes?”

“I have come to ask your permission.”

“Yes, Beatriz, for what?”

“To marry Francisco Ramírez.”

My mouth opened in delighted surprise. It was quickly tempered by the realization that I should lose her company. I pushed that thought from my mind. Better that one of us was happy.

“Of course, whatever you wish. It has certainly taken Francisco long enough to break you down. The man has been nothing if not persistent.”

She smiled stiffly.

Seeing her discomfort, I asked uneasily, “What about your translation? Are you not going to present it at Salamanca? Have you lost your desire to teach?”

She lowered her eyes. “I have not bled for two months.”

“You and Francisco . . . ?”

She shook her head. When she looked up again, her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Philippe,” I whispered.

I rushed to her and cradled her in my arms. “Oh, my poor Beatriz.”

We held each other, she shaking in silent sobs, I staring, sickened. How much damage could one unloved boy wreak?

I saw Katrien look up, all color drained from her round face. She put down her sewing, then went to the door and knocked resolutely. Her breast heaved silently as she waited.

The bolt scraped in the lock.

Her apron brushed against the guards’ armor as she pushed past them, uncaring of their curious frowns.

I was still rocking Beatriz as the door closed with a resounding thud.

Later that day, in the heat of the afternoon, Beatriz lay upon my bed, sleeping. She had vomited earlier and, at my insistence, had taken to my bed to nap. I did not need it. I was too furious at Philippe, and at my own helplessness against him, to rest.

Against my better judgment, I went to the window, knowing it would only enrage me. Philippe had returned to the tennis court and again was pounding the ball as if it were truly important. Along the sidelines, the Viscountess of Furnes and my other ladies preened before him in their fetching best. Let them have him. Just keep him from me. And keep him from Beatriz.

A man dressed in simple black strode up to the court with a tray bearing a pitcher and a goblet. He made the astonishing, inexcusable error of interrupting the royal game. From this distance, I could see Philippe’s pique in the way he mopped his brow when he grabbed his drink. The man turned and looked up in my direction as Philippe tipped his glass and guzzled.

I gripped the stone of the windowsill. No.

Diego. What do you do?

I watched in breathless disbelief as Philippe finished his drink and addressed Diego. Beatriz had told me that Philippe had turned down his claim for the governorship of the Indies, and refused to grant him an audience to discuss it. With no other access to the King, had Diego come to confront him on the tennis court? I feared for his safety—Philippe would be livid that he had been interrupted at his sport. He would make it unpleasant for both Diego and the servant who had allowed him to take his place at bringing refreshment.

I saw Diego point to the palace. Philippe turned and shaded his eyes. They peered in the direction of my window.

I shrank back. When I gathered my courage to look again, Diego was striding away, his tray in the hands of the shocked Viscountess of Furnes.

Philippe gestured to his guards. They rushed after Diego and seized him. To Philippe’s apparent enjoyment, Diego fought back, five against one. When they had thrown Diego to the ground, Philippe waved them off with his cup. Laughing, he held out his goblet for the Viscountess to refill, then looked toward my window as she poured. Again shading his eyes, he tipped in a slight bow, then downed his drink as Diego stalked away.

I pulled away from the window.

Beatriz sat up. “What is it, Your Majesty?”

“I despise Philippe.”

“Not a rare sentiment,” she murmured.

I rubbed my temples. “Diego Colón was here. He just tried to claim an audience with the King at the tennis court.”

She came to the window. “Dear Lord, is Diego Colón now dead? Does he not know that the fearful dog bites the quickest?”

Shouts went up within the palace. We looked at each other, listening. The noise grew closer. To our astonishment, Diego Colón pushed into the room, only to have guards try to shove him out.

“Unhand him!” I cried.

“Your Majesty, our orders are to—”

“My orders are for you to leave him be.”

“But the King—”

“The King is not here. You obey me.”

The guards backed out, scowling at Beatriz, who, arms crossed, enforced their reluctant retreat.

When they were gone, Diego kissed my hands. “Dear lady, I won’t be long. I have come to bid you good-bye for a while.”

I heard the door close behind Beatriz as she slipped out.

“Good-bye?”

“I told the King something that he did not want to hear. I’m afraid he’ll make it hot for me.”

“What did you say?”

“That I could not stand by while he locks you away like a prisoner.”

“You should not have risked it! There’s nothing you can do to change Philippe’s ways.” I clasped his hands. “Take me with you.”

“I would like nothing more. But I shall not steal you away like a lowly thief. I must make you mine by honor alone.”

“Don’t you know that I can never be yours, not as long as he lives?”

He squeezed my hands. “Have faith. Such evil cannot sustain itself. It will burn itself out soon. A man like that will bring his own early death.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know this.” He gazed upon my lips, then bent down and sought them tenderly with his own. At last we each drew back. “I know,” he said softly, “that I love you.”

Cries went up outside. I looked toward the window.

“I must go. I will come for you when I am worthy. Soon, I pray.”

“But—”

He put his finger to my lips, then replaced it with his mouth.

“Diego, take me with you.”

“My love, be strong. Wait for me.”

A scream sounded below. Trumpets blared in alarm.

He kissed me gently, then pressed my hands against his face. “Wait for me.”

Beatriz pushed inside the chamber as he strode past. My mind in a blur, I followed her to the window.

Like ants in an anthill that had been kicked, guards roiled upon the tennis lawn. Philippe was being carried between don Juan and another gentleman from the court, the Viscountess weeping after them. His head lolled back as if he was unconscious.

Shouts arose from inside the palace. Katrien burst into the room like a bird blown before a storm, her clogs skimming the floor in her hurry. She slid down wordlessly against a wall.

Before I could make sense of her, a page flew in. “Your Majesty! You must come. The King has fallen ill.”

With a glance at each other, Beatriz and I followed him to Philippe’s chambers. We arrived as the gentlemen shuffled in with their burden, then laid him upon the Bed of State. Don Juan sank to the floor and crossed himself.

“What has happened?” I cried. I bent over Philippe. His golden skin had turned the pale blue of skimmed milk.

“He asked for you, Your Majesty, when he fell.”

“What do you mean? Did he stumble on the court?”

I took his hand. It was as cold as death.

“We had not yet resumed playing,” said don Juan, “when all of a sudden he clutched at his belly and dropped to his knees.”

“Where are his physicians?” I demanded.

I leaned down close. He smelled of metal, like blood, though he had nary a scratch.

“Philippe!”

He opened his eyes, then, unseeing, closed them. They seemed to sink back into his head.

“What brought him to this state?”

“We did nothing unusual!” don Juan cried. “I promise. He drank water after our game—a pitcher of it, in fact, it was so hot. He collapsed soon after.”

The hair stood up on my neck. Diego had brought him the water.

“Philippe!” I said. “Look at me!”

He opened his eyes once more. He struggled to bring me into view.

“You are going to be well, Philippe. Don’t give up!”

His eyes drifted closed, his lashes a pale gold fringe against the blueness of his skin.

I scanned the ashen faces of the men crowding the bed. How I wished for his old friend Hendrik—No. No! He might suspect Diego. I looked around wildly. The Viscountess was slumped near the door, sobbing into her sleeve. My ladies patted her back as if she were the grieving wife.

A physician whisked into the room, his long sleeves aflutter. I stepped back to allow him space, then crossed myself. Dear God, let Diego get far away. Let no one lay a hand on him. Spare him, God. Please. He did wrong, but he did it for me.