Authors: C.W. Gortner
glistening ruby seeds. Digging the seeds out, I tossed them up in the air a short
distance away.
A bat swooped down to catch the falling seeds. Catalina went wide-eyed as I took
her by the hand and we crept forth, staring in awe at the wondrously hideous animal,
its tiny body furred liked a rat‟s and it‟s leathery wings surprisingly agile. Soon, there were several more above us, so close we could feel them slice the air above our heads.
They dipped close to the ground where the seeds had scattered, as if in a swoon of
indecision, and I was about to throw out more seeds with my red-stained hands when
I felt Catalina‟s hand tighten in mine.
“No,” she whispered. “Don‟t.”
“But they won‟t hurt you. I promise. You mustn‟t be afraid.”
“I― I‟m not. I just don‟t want you to.”
I longed to lure more of the creatures. I‟d been experimenting with the seeds; I
hadn‟t thought I could actually attract them. Yet even as I debated, the bats flew
upward in a squall. Catalina and I squealed and leapt back, covering our heads. As
they joined their companions in their strange aerial dance, I saw Soraya smile and I
laughed.
Catalina glared. “You
were
scared. You thought they would hurt us.”
I nodded. “I was. I guess I‟m not so brave, after all.”
The last drop of sunlight faded. The bats flitted to and fro, drawn to the moisture
from the Alhambra‟s many fountains. Usually they stayed aloft until night had fallen,
then veered in a cloud to the orchards spilling over the countryside, where ripe crops
beckoned.
Not tonight. Observing their erratic pattern, they seemed restless, uncertain of
their destination. Had our presence agitated them?
“Maybe they‟re not as indifferent to us as I‟d thought.” I said aloud. Catalina
looked at me. Above us, the bats scattered like leaves dispersed by a sudden wind.
Disappointed, I turned to the palace. Soraya slid next to me, tugged at my sleeve. I
followed her gaze to where the streak of flaming torches carried by slaves raced
toward the keep.
“La reina,”
Soraya whispered.
“La reina su madre está aqui.”
I gave Catalina an uneasy smile. “We should go back now. Mamá is here.”
The moment we returned, Doña Ana cried: “Where have you been? Her Majesty
has arrived!” Grabbing Catalina by the hand and glowering at me she motioned
Soraya back to our quarters and hustled us through the corridors to the Hall of
Ambassadors.
Isabella and Maria were already there. Avoiding Isabella‟s pointed stare, I went to
stand besides Maria. She said, “Doña Ana was beside herself. Why must you aggravate
her so?”
I didn‟t answer, intent on the courtiers filing in from the keep, scanning their
ranks for my father. My heart sank when I failed to find him. M mother had come to
Granada alone.
I flinched when Archbishop Cisneros entered the hall, his Franciscan habit flaring
about his skeletal bare feet in their leather sandals. He was Castile‟s most powerful
ecclesiastic, head of the See of Toledo and our new inquisitor general; a protégé of
Torquemada‟s, Cisneros, it was said, had walked all the way from Segovia to Seville in
those sandals to thank God for our deliverance from the Moor.
I believed it. He had devoted himself with singular focus to the eradication of
heresy from Spain, ordering all the Jews and Moors to either convert or leave on pain
of death. Many had chosen to flee rather than live under the threat of his spies and
informants, dedicated to hunting out those
conversos
who continued to secretly practice their proscribed faith. My mother had had to put a rein on his tactics when he tried to
investigate members of her household, several who had Jewish ancestry, but he‟d still
ordered the mass burning of more than a hundred heretics in a single
auto da fé
, a horrifying death for any living being, regardless of his faith. To me, he smelled of
sulfur, and I was relieved when he passed without a glance, stalking into an
antechamber.
Moments later, my mother emerged.
She moved through the bowing courtiers, the frontlets of her linen hood tied
under her chin. She‟d grown stout since the Reconquest and favored simple apparel,
though today she wore her favorite sapphire jewel depicting the bundled arrows and
yoke of her and my father‟s emblem.
We curtsied to the floor. She said, “Rise,
hijas.
Let me see you.”
I remembered to keep my spine erect and eyes lowered.
“Isabella,” my mother remarked, “you look pale. A little less prayer might do you
good.” She moved on to Catalina, who couldn‟t repress a spontaneous “Mamá!”
followed by a flush when the queen rebuked, “Catalina, remember your manners.”
Then, with Cisneros behind her, she stepped before me.
I felt her displeasure fall upon me like an anvil. “Juana, have you forgotten the
order of precedence? As my third eldest, in the absence of your brother, you should
be beside Isabella.”
I raised my eyes. “Forgive me, Mamá― I mean,
Su Majestad
. I― I was late.” As I
spoke, I sought to hide my pomegranate-stained hands behind my back.
My mother‟s lips pursed. “So I see. We shal speak later.” She stepped back,
encompassing us with her next words. “I am pleased to be with my daughters again.
You may now go to vespers and your supper. I‟ll visit with each of you once I‟ve
attended to my affairs.”
We curtsied again and traversed the hall, the court bowing low as we passed.
Before I left, I braved an anxious glance over my shoulder.
My mother had turned away.
__________________
I WAS SUMMONED after supper. I went with Soraya, and as I waited on a stool in
the antechamber to the queen‟s apartments, she went to settle on a cushion in the
corner with languid grace. Wherever she could, she opted for the floor instead of
chairs.
I watched the trembling light cast by the oil lamps onto the intricate honeycomb
ceiling, my hands plucking at my skirts. Soraya had helped me squeeze into one of my
stiff formal gowns, which seemed to have shrunk since I last wore it , the bodice
straining across the swell of my breasts and the hem barely grazing my ankles. I‟d shed
my first blood in my thirteenth year and since then it was as if my body had developed
a will of its own, my legs sprouting like a foal‟s and a fine reddish down materializing
the places Doña Ana forbade me to touch. Soraya had coiled my hair in a beaded net
and I scrubbed my face until my cheeks felt raw, trying in vain to get rid of the
smattering of freckles that betrayed my frequent forays outside without a coif.
All the while, I wondered what awaited me. My mother rarely came to Granada
this early in the year. That she was here in mid-June must mean something was amiss.
I tried to reassure myself it couldn‟t have anything to do with me; I couldn‟t think of
anything I had done wrong save for my occasional escapes into the gardens, which
could only be a minor transgression. Still, I worried, as I always did when faced with
my mother.
The queen‟s longtime friend and favorite lady, the Marquise de Moya, appeared at
the entrance. She gave me a reassuring smile. “
Princesa,
Her Majesty will see you now.”
The marquise had always been kind to me; she would have warned me if I faced
censure. I walked with renewed confidence into my mother‟s apartments, where her
other women paused in their unpacking of coffers to curtsy. When I came before her
bedchamber door, I stopped. I could not enter without her spoken leave.
Her chamber was small, illumined by braziers and candelabra. A large window at
the far wall overlooked the valley. Books and papers sat piled on the desk. The
tarnished and chipped silver sword of the Reconquest, which my mother had had
carried before her at every battle, hung prominently on the wall. Her bed was nestled
in a corner, half-hidden by a carved sandalwood screen. In keeping with her personal
asceticism, the marble floors were bare.
I knelt on the threshold. “I beg permission to enter Your Majesty‟s presence.”
My mother emerged from the shadows by her desk. “You have my leave. Enter
and close the door.”
I could not see her face. Pausing at the appropriate distance, I curtsied again.
“You can come closer,” she said dryly.
I stepped forward, wondering (as I had for as long as I could remember) if she
liked what she saw. Though I stood almost a hand taller than her, I still felt like a little girl hoping for praise.
She moved into the light cast by the candles. My trepidation must have shown, for
she said, “What do you see,
hija
, that you must stare at me thus?”
I immediately lowered my eyes.
“I wish you‟d cease that habit. Since you were a babe, you‟ve always stared at
everything as if it were on display for your inspection.” She motioned to a stool by her
desk. Once I had sat, she regarded me again in silence. “Do you know why I‟ve called
for you?”
“No, Mamá,” I said, in sudden dread.
“It should be to chastise you. Doña Ana informed me that you left your sisters
and sewing this afternoon to take Catalina into the gardens. I understand you often
disappear like that, without word or leave. What is the meaning of these excursions?”
Her question took me aback; she rarely expressed interest in my private thoughts.
I said quietly, “I like to be alone sometimes, so I can observe things.”
She took a seat on her upholstered chair before the desk. “What on earth could be
so fascinating that you must be alone to observe it.”
I couldn‟t tell her about the bats. She‟d never understand. “Nothing in particular,”
I said. “I like my solitude, is all. I‟m always surrounded by servants and tutors and
Doña Ana nagging at me.”
“Juana, their duty is to guide you.” She leaned to me, her voice firm. “When will
you realize you cannot do as you please? First, it was your fascination with everything
Moorish. You even insisted on having that slave girl serve you, and now this odd
penchant for solitude. Surely, you must have a reason for such unusual behavior.”
My shoulders tensed. “I don‟t think it‟s so unusual.”
“Oh?” She arched her brow. “You are sixteen years old. When I was your age, I
was fighting for Castile. I didn‟t have time or inclination to indulge in pastime that
perturbed my elders. Nor, should I think, do you. Doña Ana says you are rebellious
and willful, and dispute her every word. This is not behavior of an infanta of the
house of Trastámara. You are a descendant of kings. You must behave according to
your rank.”
Her reprimand wasn‟t unfamiliar and still it stung, as she knew it would. How
could I compare my thus far insignificant life with her monumental achievements?
Satisfied with my silence, she pulled a candle close, opened a portfolio, and removed a
sheet of vellum.
“This letter is for you.”
I had to stop myself from snatching it out of her hand. “Is it from Papá? Is he
coming to visit us? Will he bring Juan with him?”
I regretted my words the moment they were uttered. Her voice tightened. “Your
father and brother are still in Aragón. This letter is from the archduke Philip.” She
handed it to me. “Pray, read it aloud. It‟s in French, a language I prefer not to speak.”
Had she come all this way to bring me another boring letter from the Habsburg
court? I began to feel relieved when it occurred to me that if she‟d come to Granada
just for this, it must be important. In sudden concern, I studied the vellum in my
hand. It was expensive, a supple skin scraped and softened to the consistency of
paper. Otherwise, it seemed much like the other, periodic letters that had come over
the years, until I noticed sentences scratched out, denoting a clumsy hand with the
quill. I glanced at the signature: A scrolling
P,
stamped by the Habsburg eagle insignia.
This must be a letter from Philip himself.
“I am waiting,” my mother said.
I started to read, translating the words into Spanish:
I have received the letter
Your Highness lately sent to me, from which I perceive your affection. I assure you
that your noble words could not be sweeter to any man’s ears, nor your promise
more gratifying
―
I frowned. “What letter does he speak of? I‟ve never written to him.”
“No,” she said. “I have. Go on.”
I returned to the letter:
More gratifying to one who shares your devotion. I must
tell you what earnest love I feel knowing I shall soon see Your Highness. I pray
that your arrival here, and my sister Margaret’s departure for Spain may be
hastened so that the love between us and our countries can be fulfilled.
I looked up in sudden comprehension. “He― he speaks of marriage.”
My mother reclined in her chair. “He does. It is time for you to go to Flanders to
wed Philip and for his sister Margaret to come here as a bride for your brother.” She
paused. “Is that all he says?”
I found it difficult to breathe. The letter swam before my eyes. “There‟s a
postscript here from someone named Besançon. He advises me to learn French, as it
is the language spoken at the Flemish court.”
“Besançon.” My mother grimaced. “He may be Flander‟s premier archbishop, but