Reign of Madness (35 page)

In May 2008, I visited the town of Tordesillas, the scene of Juana’s imprisonment of forty-six years. As I entered the Plaza Mayor, a quiet space surrounded by crooked plaster-and-timber buildings and given to flocks of bobbing pigeons, my husband pointed to the window of a narrow shopfront.

“Isn’t that a picture of your Juana?” he asked.

I couldn’t believe it. The windows of the store were crowded with what looked like posters of the Mad Queen of Spain, “my” Juana.

A Juana shop? It seemed as unlikely as it sounded.

I hurried across the bricks of the square, passed under the sagging timbers of the arcade, and pushed open the battered door. There, on the ocher walls of the shop, were scores of hand-tinted woodcuts of Juana, and views of Tordesillas as drawn in 1543 by Anton van den Wyngaerde, along with smaller prints of Philippe and Charles V. I was greeted by a handsome young man with long, curling dark hair—Carlos Adeva, the artist, I learned, who hand-reproduced the woodcuts, among other works of art displayed around the shop.

Señor Adeva was delighted by my interest in Juana, and soon launched into legends of her intelligence and bravery—my favorite being the one according to which Juana gave birth to Charles while dancing at a party. She had popped into a privy and came out smiling (although surely a bit careworn) with her newborn son. When I asked señor Adeva if he believed Juana was insane, he bristled at the suggestion. She was made to look that way, he told me, so that others could take her inheritance. Calling her Juana la Loca was offensive to him and many others in Spain, especially in this town.

“What should she be called?” I asked.

He pointed across the square, to the plaza entrance under which I’d just walked. A banner, wafting in the spring breeze, stretched across several storefronts. Its letters, each as tall as a child, spelled out the five-hundred-year-old signature:

JUANA LA REINA

Acknowledgments

So many people have helped me on my journey to bring Juana of Castile to life. At the start was my agent, Emma Sweeney, upon whose calm and sage advice I always depend. I am grateful to Peternelle van Arsdale for nurturing the story (and me) in the early drafts. I count myself as lucky indeed to have benefited from the sure editorial hand of Christine Pepe as the book took shape. Her confidence in me and in the story has meant the world to me. She promised that we would have fun working on this book, and she was right.

My deepest gratitude goes to Ivan Held for his unwavering support for the project at all stages. I must thank Marilyn Ducksworth, Catharine Lynch, Meredith Phebus, Kate Stark, Katie Grinch, Rich Hasselberger, Meaghan Wagner, and the design team of Claire Vaccaro and Chris Welch, all indispensable in their various capacities in bringing this book along. I owe a huge debt of thanks to Anna Jardine, upon whose expert copyediting skills and knowledge of everything under the sun I greatly depended. I would also like to thank Leslie Gelbman, Jackie Cantor, and Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski at Berkley. To the energetic Penguin sales force, I owe my appreciation, as well as to the stalwart Eva Talmadge and Suzanne Rindell at the Emma Sweeney Agency. And thank you, John Burgoyne, for creating the evocative endpaper maps.

One of the best parts of traveling the road to discover Juana is the fascinating and unforgettable people I have met on it. In Belgium, I had the good fortune of being taken under the wing of Rudi van Poele and Marie-Paule Rombauts, who welcomed me into their hearts and home while opening my eyes to the richness of their Flemish heritage. Thanks to Rudi, I met Paul Behets, Dieter Viaene, and Axel Vaeck at the city archives in Mechelen (Malines), who kindly showed me documents pertaining to Philippe the Handsome and Juana. What a thrill it was to hold in my hands a five-hundred-year-old paper, complete with its crumbling wax seal, that had been signed by the archduke himself—a loan agreement, unsurprisingly. (Philippe needed money to support his appetites.) Thanks to Rudi, I had the opportunity to bicycle through the Flemish countryside to Lier, where the church in which Juana and Philippe were married still stands, little changed. Rudi also arranged an instructive afternoon in Damme with Gustaaf Dierckx, to whom I am grateful for sharing his time and his knowledge of the Burgundian court, and a visit to the Cathedral of Our Lady in Mechelen for an impromptu concert by the brilliant organist Wannes Vanderhoeven on a centuries-old instrument. I am grateful for the friendship of Peter Meuris and Patricia Gobein, also from Mechelen. The many hours spent chatting with them at their lovely B&B, Luna Luna, were informative and entertaining. Both Peter and Rudi are official city guides in that fabled place—if you have the luck to go to there, ask for them!

In Spain, I was greatly helped by the talented artist Carlos Adeva. He, like his shop in Tordesillas, is a treasure trove of Juana lore. It was a joy to meet someone who loves her as much as I do. I would like to thank Laura Martín Velasco for sharing her knowledge of Segovia and the Monasterio de San Antonio el Real. I am grateful to José L. Ardura for hosting a magical evening at the Posada Monasterio Tórtoles de Esgueva, the very place where Fernando caught up with Juana after Philippe died. At dinner, Rosa Guillén generously shared her knowledge of Spanish history. Besides having the best meal of my life, I learned much that night.

I would like to thank my companions on my trips to Spain, Steve and Ruth Berberich, and my husband, Mike. Because of their unflagging energy, no road, village, church, or monastery was left unexplored as we traced Juana’s steps. I am grateful to Steve for often rallying us with his cry “What would Juana do?”

Stateside, seeking Juana took me to Columbus, Ohio, where I was able to board a replica of Columbus’s ship the
Santa María
, my trip made easier thanks to my sisters, Jeanne, Margaret, Carolyn, and Arlene. I am deeply grateful to my brother David, who was among the first to encourage me to tell Juana’s story, and who continues to be one of my staunchest supporters. I am fortunate to have had constant encouragement from the members of my long-standing book club—thank you, ladies. I’d like to thank in particular Sue Edmonds, Jan Johnstone, and Karen Torghele for nourishing me in mind and spirit.

Although my quest to know Juana has taken me across the globe, it started at home, when I first read Bethany Aram’s
Juana the Mad: Sovereignty and Dynasty in Renaissance Europe
(The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005.) Informed by that definitive work, and by the biographies on Isabel of Castile by Peggy K. Liss and Nancy Rubin, my story took root and grew. But none of it would have been possible without the love and encouragement of my daughters, Lauren, Megan, and Ali, who not only inspired this story about mothers and daughters, but are the shining lights of my life.

List of Illustrations

Page 1
Michel Sittow,
Portrait of a Young Woman [Juana of Castile?],
1503–1504. Oil on oak, 29 x 20.5 cm. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Gemäldegalerie, Vienna.

Page 7
Attributed to Gerard David, detail from
“The Virgin of the Fly”: The Holy Family with Mary Magdalene and Saint Catherine [Isabel of Castile?],
1522. Oil on panel, Collegiate Church of Saint Mary Major, Toro (Zamora), Spain.

Page 63
Hans Memling,
The Mystic Marriage of Saint Catherine of Alexandria [with Mary of Burgundy, Philip of Burgundy, and Margaret of York?],
1479. Oil on wood, 172 x 162 cm. Memlingmuseum, Sint-Janshospitaal, Bruges.

Page 203
Michel Sittow,
Ferdinand II of Aragón,
late fifteenth–early sixteeenth century. Oil on wood, 29 x 22 cm. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Gemäldegalerie, Vienna.

Page 319
Artist unknown,
Portrait of Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy, Wife of Charles the Bold,
c. 1468–1470. Oil on wood, 20.5 x 12 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Page 363
Juan de Flandes,
Portrait of a Girl [Catherine of Aragón?],
c. 1498. Oil on panel, 22 x 32 cm. Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, Madrid.

Page 373
Juan de Flandes,
Philip the Handsome,
c. 1500. Oil on oak, 30 x 19.3 cm. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Gemäldegalerie, Vienna.

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