Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (10 page)

On this battlefield rode the flower of Christian chivalry. Men left the camp enthused with a strange kind of joy. Even when they returned bloodied and broken beyond all hope of saving, their eyes still shone until death darkened them forever. Beatriz’s heart throbbed to the words of her ancestor:

These young lions welcomed each raw wound upon their
head
s
as though it were a
garland.

Bewildered, Beatriz shook her head, wondering if men lived just for this one moment, the one moment when, god-like, they dealt out death. She did not understand this war – nor the death of men, Christian or Moor.
Holy war? A war the good God wanted? God wanted men to hate and kill one another?
She could not believe it.

Men believed to die here opened heaven’s gates, and took one straight to paradise. There were no angels singing, only the cries of savage death and the cawing of crows. Shutting her eyes, Beatriz seemed to hear the evil cackle of demons. Their cackle became louder every moment she stayed in this chamber.

Carried by the uncaring wind, the screams of men and beast assailed her, tearing her heart into shreds. In the midst of a wide-awake nightmare, she looked again out the window. Demons swam all around her, red eyes spewing tongues of fire and flame, fangs pointed and dripping blood. They wanted prey. They wanted her. Unable to block out the sounds of war, unable to stop watching out the shutter-less window, she trembled, fighting an urge to scream:
The window! Shutter it! Please! I beg someone! Shutter it! Don’t let the children watch this one moment longer. Oh please, someone! Close the
shutters!

Queen Isabel stood at the window as if transfixed. Even Juana and Maria seemed surprisingly undisturbed, locked upon the crest and fall of battle, the crest and fall of life and death.

Catalina took Maria de Salinas’s arm. “Come.” Beatriz saw the child’s white, sick face. She knew it a mirror of hers. “Come and play with me.”

Uncaring for their rich velvets, the two girls sat on the dusty floor. Motes rose, spun, glittering like flicks of gold in a slanting sunbeam.

Upon her square palm, Catalina offered to Maria silver-gilded knuckles. Earlier this morning, unaware that her mother would take her where no child should ever go, she had scooped them from the chest in her chamber to put in the pocket of her gown. The two girls had been innocent then. How could they be innocent now? Beatriz winced seeing Catalina’s trembling smile.

“You call first,” the child said. Tears ran down Catalina’s pale cheeks. She met Maria’s eyes, and Beatriz seized on the one light in a far too dark afternoon. From the first moment the two girls had become friends, they shared a kinship that went beyond flesh.

Catalina tossed the knuckles up in the air and, like the motes just before, the silver knuckles winked and glittered in sunlight. The girls became children again, while Beatriz tried to shutter out visions of Hell.

The world and its desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives
forever.
John 2:16-17

Dear love,

I continue to wait eagerly for your return. Did you not tell me, love, that you witnessed the king knighting his son in sight of the beleaguered city of the Moors two years ago? Yesterday, Prince Juan had his first taste of battle – a carefully dealt out taste. The prince’s life is far too precious for his parents to tempt fate
overmuch.

The queen’s daughters would prefer not to spend their days at camp, but victory over the Moors is so important the entire royal house must witness it. They are guarded well – perchance, too well. The lives of the girls are more confined here than when we live in the great comfort of a royal alcázar. We are crowded together in a tent, although the infantas take turns to sleep with their mother in the magnificent tent loaned to her by the Duke of
Cadiz…

A
peculiar red-tinged orange light flickered against Beatriz’s closed eyelids. Drawn out of the eddy sucking her into sleep and dreams, she opened one eye and then the other. Her eyes stung, watered, blinked. The orange glow wavered, illuminating the tent. The light grew stronger until – moment-by-moment – it eclipsed the amber light of the tent’s lone candle.

Surfacing from her drowsy haze of confusion, Beatriz coughed – signalling a sleepy chorus of coughs from the infantas and their attendants. Beatriz’s throat and lungs started to hurt. She wheezed, and the reason hit her like cold water. She bolted up in bed, her heart racing. Fear opened in place of her stomach. She breathed smoke – not the smoky air of a camp numbering hundreds of tents, but increased a thousand-fold, and more. A woman screamed. Drums and trumpets sounded the alarm. Voices shouted. More screams cut through the air, closer this time, cries of women intermingled with squeals of terrified horses.

Outside the tent men yelled and swore. Heavy feet crunched upon earth, stumbled, ran. The queen, her deep voice heightened by rare panic, screeched, “...leave me! See to the prince and my daughters. Make certain they’re safe.”

Fearing the camp attacked, Beatriz shook her two charges awake. At almost the same moment soldiers, some dressed only in heeled hose and shirt, rushed into the tent. One carried a torch and pointed to Catalina and her sister Maria. This night saw Juana sleep in her mother’s tent. Without any concern for decorum, ignoring the girls’ startled cries, the men bundled the two infantas and small Maria in blankets from their beds and carried them into the night. The other occupants of the tent had only the fire’s light to help them to safety. Drawing a blanket around her shoulders to cover her shift, Beatriz hurried after the men, coughing every step of the way.

She gazed over her shoulder. The other women emerged and ran from the tent. Turning slightly, she saw the queen’s pavilion. Glowing bright like a blazing funeral pyre, its red and orange flames lit the night sky.

The wind gathered strength. Embers flared out, catching the top of the infantas’ tent. Flame-tongues licked until the blaze took hold. Metal gleamed then turned into molten rivulets. The pavilion she had just left became buckling walls of flames. The fire ate and ate, its sparks spreading to yet another tent, gorging upon the silk and metal.

Making her way to Catalina and Maria, Beatriz shivered, iced both by terror and cold night. Her naked toes curled in pain against the hard, stony earth. She limped in agony by the time she reached her royal charge. Nestled under the queen’s arm, engrossed in watching the night spectacle, Catalina reached to clasp Beatriz’s hand in hers. Little Maria ran to her, taking her other hand.

On the other side of their mother, the infanta Maria stood beside her older sister, Juana, who held Prince Juan’s hand. All of them were robed in blankets. Even King Ferdinand seemed to have had a close escape. Marching back and forth, directing soldiers fighting the fire, he wore just his white shirt and hose and held his sword, buckler and cuirass, as if ready to do battle. He scanned the efforts of his men, the fire flames flickering in his dark eyes.

Hearing a cry of warning, Beatriz glanced over her shoulder. The fire gorged everything in its path, enveloping the nearby sleeping booths made from tree branches, rough and ready protection from the elements for many soldiers. Compassion tugged at Beatriz’s heart. They would be left without sleeping places this night. They would not be the only ones.

The fire continued to feast. The night air filled with the crackle and snap of a ravenous beast. Unsatisfied, greedy for destruction, the beast grew in size, becoming grotesque, a monster on a rampage. A hoard of soldiers formed bucket lines and struggled to quench its advance.

“Men, let not the Moors benefit from this night’s work and discover us with our guard down! Cavalry!” the king yelled. “Mount your horses! Ring the camp and protect the queen!”

Answering his command, a battle-horn swelled its long call into the night. The thunder of a thousand or more horses stormed around them, the queen’s cavalry rushing into the black of night. Gathered together and safe, as if on an island of calm, chaos and darkness lapping at its shores, Queen Isabel and her children stood close to one another. The gusty wind radiated a wall of heat in their direction. They had made their escape just in time. Good fortune had robbed the blazing pyres before their eyes of the dead.

···

A dismal dawn broke over the camp the next day. Low grey clouds intermingled with mist and lingering smoke. Exhausted soldiers salvaged through the smouldering ruins, carefully sifting the remains of the queen’s tent for any signs of evil intent or for anything worth saving. The exquisite pavilion of the Marques of Cadiz destroyed, Queen Isabel, her three unwed daughters and their closest attendants shared a large tent undamaged by the fire, wearing upon their backs clothes given to them by those still with possessions after the dreadful night.

Garbed in borrowed gowns too big for them, Catalina and Maria stood with Beatriz on the edge of the destroyed camp, watching the soldiers at work. Over-tired from a sleepless night, long moments passed before anyone spoke. Catalina stepped onto the scorched encampment. She dug into the ground with her slippered toe, examining the little pile of earth as if wishing to make sense of it.

“Jesu’. The very earth itself is black and seared.” Catalina lifted her head. “You spoke to my mother? Do they know how it happened?”

Beatriz joined Catalina, studying the scorched earth too. Sunlight broke through the heavy cloud and glinted off some object half-buried in the soil. Cleaning it with her foot, Beatriz picked up a small mass of shapeless metal. “Whatever this was once, none now can tell.” She sighed and dropped it back on the ground. “So much destroyed in a single night – our clothes chests and furs the least of it.” She pushed back a strand of hair blowing in her eyes. “How did it happen? My infanta, last night, the queen prayed alone for the safety of the king and the prince. When the pavilion filled with smoke, Queen Isabel wasted no time taking flight with your sister.”

Catalina took Beatriz’s arm. “Was it treachery?”

Beatriz tried to smile her reassurance, but a nasty taste was in her mouth. When she looked at Catalina she shivered. God knew she would always protect the queen with her life, even if it risked her soul. “Treachery is always a possibility,” she sighed, not wanting to think about it. “But the queen believes the fire was an accident.”

“Can you be certain?” Catalina asked.

Beatriz shrugged. “The queen commanded a taper be taken from near her couch and placed elsewhere. It appears the attendant placed it too near the hangings and forgot the strong wind last night. Thank God only our possessions were destroyed. It could have been far, far worse. Our good queen came too close to death here.”

···

While the queen and her court escaped a fiery death, the wheel of fortune turned elsewhere, giving with one hand, taking with the other. One month after the fire, when the sun was high in the sky, a horseman rode into the camp, his horse – rolling-eyed and frothing blood – ridden to the ground. Rumour of his grim news spread around the camp as fast as the blaze that destroyed the queen’s camp, but ’twas not until the next morning that their grieving queen told her attendants the story come from Portugal.

A week before, Prince Alfonso hurried home to his wife at nightfall, galloping his untried, half-broken stallion, a recent gift of King Ferdinand, on the uneven ground of the Tagus riverbed. It was to be the good prince’s last twilight before night fell on his mortal life forever.

The queen told her women a swooping owl had spooked the prince’s horse. The animal wheeled from the rough track into rougher terrain, an unseen hole snapping the horse’s leg. Alfonso was tossed from his mount, then the animal crashed down on him.

Alfonso’s Castilian groom took him to a fisherman’s hovel before going for help. By the time the king’s physician came to the prince’s aid it was too late to move him. Alfonso lay for two days close to death. The King of Portugal, the Queen of Portugal, his mother and his wife remained by his side. Both women held on to him as if that alone held him to life, but he never regained consciousness. Death came for him on the second night.

Queen Isabel and most of her inner court now resided in a new and more comfortable dwelling, a small Moor alcázar taken in conquest, half a day’s journey from the battlefield. The queen waited there while her soldiers built for her a half city and half camp, naming it Santa Fe: Holy Faith. Santa Fe would offer her better protection and comfort than the king’s camp. Beatriz spent much of her time in the queen’s chamber, teaching Catalina and Maria their lessons. With Queen Isabel unwell, full of unrest and worry about her eldest daughter, Beatriz knew Catalina’s presence helped to lighten her mother’s mood. Often she wondered if the queen really noticed them at all, especially the day when the message arrived from Portugal.

Reading it the queen gasped. “My Isabel has locked herself in a dark chamber. She has not slept or eaten since Alfonso’s death. She weeps and weeps and refuses to wear anything but sackcloth.” She read a little more. “Sweet Jesu’, she’s cut off all her hair! Her women fear for her. They think she may try to take her own life. Queen Leonor fears the same. She writes that they have taken Isabel’s dagger from her. My daughter must return. I shall write so now!”

Thus, the King of Portugal sent Isabel home.

···

Beatriz abandoned any hope of teaching the girls when outriders brought them news that Isabel’s cavalcade was but a day away. The next morning she took them to the balcony overlooking the winding road ribboning its way to the alcázar. Grateful for the balcony’s stone bench, Beatriz read a book as Catalina chewed at her thumbnail, looking down at hills and valleys, spreading out to become the blue mist of distance.

The sun passed its pinnacle while Maria strummed her guitar. At times, Beatriz scrutinised Catalina. The child stayed at her post as if she could not move. Her book unexpectedly boring, time trudged slowly onward like a spark igniting a damp log.

At last Beatriz heard a fanfare of trumpets. Catalina let out a cry. Half sobbing, half laughing, she picked up her skirts, running from her chamber. Maria put down her guitar and raced after her. Beatriz followed until, breathless, she reached a large gathering of courtiers come hither to welcome the queen’s eldest daughter.

The andas
halted before the steep, narrow stairs and the king helped his daughter out. A ghost-woman emerged from the andas, shrouded in black veils billowing in the gusting wind, overtop a widow’s white headdress. Sheer black gossamer veils did little to conceal Isabel’s haggard, ill face.

Her women kneeling behind her, Isabel curtseyed. The king raised her up, kissing her cheek in welcome. He took her up the steps for her mother’s greeting. Isabel pulled back her veil as a sign of respect. With exhausted grace and lowered eyes, she dropped to her knees and kissed the king and queen’s be-ringed hands. Queen Isabel bent to speak to her daughter. Despite her closeness, Beatriz could not hear Isabel’s reply, only softly mumbled words.

The king and queen gazed at each other before they assisted their daughter to her feet. Isabel kept her head bowed as her mother kissed her. She did not look at either parent, she did not look at anything. The long trail of her gown dragging behind her, she stumbled up the steps like one blind.

Catalina shifted from one foot to the other. Unwilling to wait one more moment, forgetting protocol, she rushed down those last few steps to her sister. Blanching, Queen Isabel swung an alarmed glance to the king, reaching for her youngest child. Too late. Catalina flung herself at Isabel, wrapping her arms around her sister’s body. Her older sister took a backward step and stood like stone, her arms stiff at her sides.

“Isabel!” Catalina cried, hugging her again, this time tighter, almost pushing her sister back another step. Isabel stared ahead, far too lost within her own grief to be conscious of the grief she herself caused, unaware that her youngest sister’s mouth trembled, or that Catalina’s tears welled, running down flushed cheeks. Grim, his eyes hard, the king separated Catalina from his older daughter.

The princess returned to them a stranger. Over the coming days she wafted through the court, her drawn, sorrowful face hooded by a mantle, garbed in mourning from head to toe, speaking little, and only when spoken to.

There were moments when she resumed some semblance of her former self, but a misspoken word or deed soon caused Isabel to disappear like a genie into its lamp. The light extinguished from her eyes, she withdrew into the shadows of her deep hood. Ever protective, the queen kept her eldest daughter close and even insisted the girl sleep with her at night.

Two weeks after Isabel arrived home, Beatriz and her two small charges slipped passed the queen’s attendants. Either gossiping over their sewing or playing chess, the women paid them no mind. Catalina pushed open the heavy oak door to her mother’s bed-chamber and froze. Isabel knelt at her mother’s side, head cradled upon folded arms on the queen’s lap, sobbing and sobbing. Never before in Beatriz’s life had she witnessed such grief, not from man, woman, or child. Isabel’s sobs tore out of her and cut deep like a dagger.