Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (2 page)

Beatriz grinned again. Her lessons were not falling on deaf ears.

Maria read in a halting, uncertain voice: “So they rode till they came to a lake, which was a fair water and broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was aware of an arm clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand...”

“Catalina!”

Beatriz almost jumped out of her skin when the young, grating voice called. Stepping out of the alcove, she saw the infanta Juana rushing down the corridor, followed by her duena and two female slaves. A child of ten, Juana’s slight form was outlined in sun-edged shadow.

“Latina! I did not think to find you here too.” Juana looked into the library. “Sister, our lady mother desires our presence in her chamber.”

Catalina gazed at her older sister and then back at the book.

“Come, my sister. Latina, you come too.”

The infanta Juana disappeared from view, her women picking up their skirts and rushing after her. Beatriz smiled, reminded of the goose girl she had seen only this morning, searching for herbs not grown in the royal gardens. The swish of long dresses and under-breath protestations hissed after the infanta like a gaggle of annoyed geese.

Her face pensive and full of regret, Catalina shut the book, caressing its engraved leather cover before passing it to Maria. The two girls got to their feet, Maria cradling the book in her arms. Catalina ran after her sister. Silken slippers padded against the tiled floor until fading to a whisper. Now all alone in the library, Maria stood on her tiptoes, returning the book to its rightful place.

Beatriz hurried back to the queen’s chambers with the others. The guard blinked in surprise, seeing her yet again, when Juana knocked and Catalina beckoned to Beatriz to follow. One by one they entered the queen’s bedchamber, Juana’s duena and slaves stepping aside to wait outside the door.

The queen was still abed, still writing, appearing disturbed, even downhearted. Wondering what could have changed the queen’s mood so quickly, Beatriz noticed the queen was writing a letter to the king. Looking around the room, she thought of her unwritten letter to Francisco. Should she write to him of Prince Juan, now perched on the edge of the bed, his head bent, silver-blond hair half covering his face? The prince strummed his small harp, one long, slender leg folded under the other. Or should she write of his sisters – Isabel, the eldest child of the queen, Juana, Maria, and small Catalina?

Beatriz lowered her face to hide her smile. Perhaps her letter would turn out like her last – one where she wrote to Francisco about the Aristotle tract she was translating from the Latin to Castilian, and yet more suggestions about what he should do to protect his hearing. She had even quoted to him from her lecture about Bartholomew the Englishman to underscore her seriousness. But then too Francisco’s love letters did not fit the usual pattern of a lover. So many times his letters were full of his experiments with gunpowder, even sharing different recipes he’d tried in his efforts to discover a trustworthy composition, and the success, or lack of it, he had in weakening the fortifications of the Moors. Sometimes he even asked her to seek out in the queen’s library for books that would help him in his task to blow up walls that had stood for centuries. She only agreed to his proposal of marriage when he promised her their mutual quest for knowledge would never change. She had no reason to doubt him. They had been good friends since she first took up her position at court. A widower ten years older than she, with two grown sons and one married daughter, Francisco was a man who understood the passions of minds.

Beatriz returned to the present moment. Prince Juan blinked as if waking from a dream, his handsome, sensitive face that of a poet. Humming in accompaniment to her brother’s song, Infanta Maria, three years older than Catalina, twirled her spindle, sitting next to her adult sister, Isabel. Not one to love learning for the sake of learning like her three sisters and brother, the infanta Maria was a kind child who never seemed to share the melancholic natures of her more sensitive siblings. Sometimes Beatriz wondered if she was born under a kinder, happier star.

Princess Isabel reached for
Livy’s Decades
on the table beside her and opened it to a page deep within the book. Her index finger pulled at her bottom lip, eyes scanning the page, turning it quickly to the next. Catalina and her small companion watched on in fascination. Beatriz smiled. She could guess the girls desired to read just as fast.

Suitably serious as the eldest child of her mother, Princess Isabel rarely wasted her time with books of courtly romance. Her mother sometimes teased her, as she also did her second daughter, Juana, by calling the princess ‘my mother-in-law’. But while the queen called the infanta Juana thus because she inherited the dark bold beauty of her father’s mother, Isabel gained the name because she shared her grandmother’s solemn outlook on the world and desire for study and prayer. The queen held up the king’s mother as yet another example for her daughters to mirror.

Small Catalina, fifteen years the younger, wanted to be just like her eldest sister, Isabel. As the companion of the infanta, Maria had little choice but to follow after. Both girls still preferred tales of King Arthur or El Cid, favouring the chivalry intertwined with magic and love and longing of King Arthur’s court. It was a good thing the queen had a well-stocked library with a full collection of the Arthur legends, from French poems to their favourite Latin text written by an English knight. The girls were always asking Beatriz for new stories.

The queen lifted her gaze from the half-finished letter. Her worn face softened into a welcoming smile as she looked over to her youngest daughter. Letting go of the parchment, she pushed her desk aside and held out her arms. “Uno Piqueño, come! Come and embrace your mother.”

Josepha, putting aside her sewing, grinned at Beatriz, placing a hand on her daughter Maria’s shoulder. The child flung her arms around her mother, cushioning her face against her breasts. Josepha bent her head, kissing the top of Maria’s head. She looked up at Beatriz and smiled again. “I said I’d see you soon enough.” Without waiting for an answer, Josepha
took her daughter’s hand and led her from the royal family to the far end of the room where there were, prepared already for the night, two bed-pallets.

With not enough rooms in this beautiful but small alcázar for the queen and her court, her four daughters and their most trusted attendants slept on pallets in the large chamber near the queen’s private rooms. The queen never slept alone. She shared her chambers with her daughters because King Ferdinand stayed too long away from her side. No one could doubt the queen’s honour or wifely virtue while she slept with her own daughters and favoured women. Now the time approached for the court to leave Burgos to join the king at Sevilla.

A finger to her lips, gesturing to her daughter for silence, Josepha sat on a chair, picked up a border of black material, and returned to her needle. She stitched the gold, even loops of punto real, a favoured stitch of the queen. On the nearby stool was a neatly folded chemise waiting to be joined to the finished embroidery.

Firelight flickered, glinting upon the gold, silver and jewel-decorated vessels set upon a nearby table. Beatriz stepped into deeper shadows, where no candle or firelight reached, seeking not to be noticed. Her eyes rested on the royal family. The queen’s blessing done, Catalina clambered onto her mother’s bed and kissed her cheek. The queen wound her arms around her youngest child. She laughed softly, caressing Catalina’s hair.

Prince Juan, Catalina’s twelve-year-old brother, dropped his harp on the bed. His blue eyes glowing with mischief, he tickled his sister’s underarm. She giggled, nestling into him. The prince stood on the threshold between pretty boy and beautiful youth. Blond down intermixed with a darker, thicker colour upon his cheeks. He tickled Catalina again.

The child giggled. “Stop it, Juan!”

Juan laughed. He flicked back the straight fringe from his eyes before reclaiming his harp and plucking a short tune. The black velvet of his doublet increased the bright blond lustre of his hair, candlelight creating an aureole around his head. Angel, his mother called him. Prince Juan well deserved his nickname. All loved him.

“Your command is mine! What song shall I play you, sister?” asked the prince.

The queen’s smile embraced them both. She rested her fingers on her son’s arm. He returned a gaze full of love.

“Son, not yet. I want to first speak to Catalina.” She encircled her daughter with her arms, drawing her closer. “Uno Piqueño, can you remember what happened two years ago?”

Catalina looked up, bewildered. “Mama?”

The queen sighed. Her jaw slackening, she no longer smiled. A candle gusted out, casting her face into deep shadow. Communing as if with the unseen, she tightened her hold on her daughter.

“I forget – ‘tis long for a small child to remember... In truth, you were little more than an infant when the English came and I, holding you on my lap, showed you the bulls.” The queen smiled slightly. “You wore your first gown of black velvet that day, one rich with jewels. The next day we promised you to their prince.” She looked again at Catalina and stroked her hair. Wrapping a lock around her finger, she studied it and let it go, her face becoming strong again. “I have just received word from your father. We have promised another of our hijas to another king’s son. My Isabel?”

Princess Isabel playfully peered over the book. “Mama?”

“Come, and tell your sister your news.”

Isabel strode over to the bed with all the grace and confidence of a young woman of twenty. She sat on the other side of her mother’s wide bed and took Catalina’s hand. “I’m to be wed.”

Catalina cried out and threw herself into her sister’s arms, pulling at the long chain of Isabel’s heavy, gold crucifix. Princess Isabel’s laugh overlaid the silence of the other occupants in the queen’s chamber. Disentangling herself from her sister, she said, “Be careful, Uno Piqueño.”

“Married! But to whom?”

“Can’t you guess?” Isabel laughed, but didn’t wait for Catalina to answer. “I’m marrying Prince Alfonso of Portugal. One day he’ll be Portugal’s king, and I its queen.”

Queen Isabel gazed at her eldest and youngest daughters with cheerless eyes. “Isabel, I hoped that service for your sister, Maria, many years hence. Whilst your father, before he owned to the French king’s treacherous heart, wished you wed to the French prince, I wanted so much to find you a husband of suitable birth to keep you with us in Castilla. You are my first born, after all. But Alfonso remembers you too well from the time when you both were hostages together. He wants you, and only you.”

Princess Isabel smiled, stretching out her hand to her mother. The queen clasped it and held it against her cheek. Catalina’s wide eyes went from her mother to her sister. “You’re leaving us?”

Isabel’s eyes shone with sudden tears. “I must, Uno Piqueño.”

Catalina wrapped her arms around her sister. “Don’t go, I beg you!”

Over her head, Isabel the mother and Isabel the daughter gazed at one another. Lines of pain scored deep in the queen’s white face, rending her almost ugly. She shut her bloodshot eyes, biting her bottom lip. In the heavy silence, Beatriz could hear the drum of her own heart in her ears.

The prince swung from the bed with nimble grace. Standing between Maria and Juana he clasped their hands. All three of them gazed at the bed.

With a short laugh, Isabel’s arms tightened around her youngest sister. “Catalina, listen. Portugal is not so far away that I cannot ever come home. In any case, I know my duty and do it willingly.”

Catalina grabbed her sister’s habito, as if she wouldn’t let her go. Isabel frowned and shook her head, not one strand of hair daring to shift from its rightful place. “When you’re older, you too will do your duty and marry your English prince. You will not fail God or your country then. I will not fail it now.”

Gently Isabel extricated Catalina from her arms and dried her sister’s tears. A finger under Catalina’s chin, she forced her small sister to look at her.

“Child, needless weeping is not for Castilian princesses.” Isabel looked at the queen with pride. “Especially hijas
of our mother, the greatest queen ever known to Christendom. And what reason for tears? I am happy to wed Alfonso. I learnt to love him long ago and go to him with joy in my heart.”

Mujer que sabe latin rara vez tiene buen fin.
Hija hilandera, hija casadera.
The woman who knows Latin seldom ends up
well.
The daughter who spins is a daughter who is
marriageable.

N
ight fell. Cold, Beatriz curled up in her narrow trundle bed, trying to get comfortable, trying to sleep. The infantas talked softly to one another in the shared chamber, the older ones engrossed in the plans to celebrate Isabel’s wedding in Sevilla. At last the excited infantas settled down, their discussions dissipating to a lulling word here and there until the breathing of Juana and Maria became that of the sleeping. Beatriz closed her heavy eyes and began to drift towards dream, only to be startled back into wide-eyed wakefulness by Catalina’s excited voice. Very young, the child’s tone punctuated the growing silence. “You never spoke of him.”

Covered with white furs, Princess Isabel twisted on her couch, grey shadow falling like a blanket on her slender form. Near night candles lit up her teeth and eyes.

“Alfonso? How could I? The match wasn’t set in stone. Indeed, our father fought for years to dissolve the contract of my betrothal. And for good reason. I am the heir to our mother’s throne after Juan, God protect him.” Isabel crossed herself. “That might prove true for our father’s kingdom, too. Mother wants Father to force Aragon to stop insisting on male succession.” She glanced at Catalina. “Also, the King of Portugal may have agreed to settle for our sister Maria, once she reached marriageable age.”

Catalina rolled on the narrow pallet to face her sister. “You did not want that?”

Isabel shifted like one discomforted. “You’re no longer an infant. You should know by now that what we want for ourselves matters very little. We serve, and obey.”

“But, sister, your heart?” When Catalina gestured with palm upraised, it seemed to Beatriz she held to her sister the heart she spoke of.

“Heart?” Isabel’s muted, grim laugh resonated in the high ceiling chamber. She glanced over to Beatriz. “Our La Latina likes to sprinkle too well her lessons with tales of romance. I beg you, don’t believe them.”

She lounged back, letting out a deep breath. “But you are right. For my own sake, I did not want our sister Maria matched to Portugal’s prince. Alfonso and I became good friends during the time we were held hostage together.” Isabel shrugged. “He is three years younger than me. I cared for him as I do for Juan, like I do for you all.

“But we also shared that we’re both eldest children of ruling monarchs. Such children do not stay children for long.” Isabel’s teeth shone with an unexpected smile. “He kissed my lips when we said farewell.” A dreamlike shaft of light showed her straightening her form on the couch, hands locking behind her head. When Isabel spoke again, it seemed she spoke to herself rather than her little sister. “My first kiss from a noble-born youth, not a brother or close male kin. An innocent boy’s kiss, si. But even then, a kiss that promised much.” Isabel turned again to her sister. “Uno Piqueño, no more questions. Time for you to sleep. Would you like for me to provide a lullaby by reciting your favourite part of
El
Cid
?”

With a squeal of delight, Catalina nodded. Yawning, Beatriz rubbed her eyes. Rolling on her side, she listened to Isabel’s melodious voice:

“Ah Cid I kiss thine hands again,
but make a gift to me
Bring me a Moorish mantle
splendidly wrought and red.”
“So be it. It is granted,”
the Cid in answer said,
“If from abroad I bring it,
well doth the matter stand...

That same night
Beatriz awoke to the sound of Catalina weeping. She sighed and slipped from her bed to go to sit by the child. Catalina looked up at Beatriz. The girl took a shuddering breath, bit her bottom lip, her tears stopping. Beatriz touched the child’s wet cheek, smiling at her in reassurance. Too many nights Catalina awoke like this. It was one of the reasons why Maria de Salinas had come to companion the young infanta. She was one who knew how best to comfort her in her night terrors. Before Maria, Catalina had wept until the break of dawn, or when the queen sent a priest to pray over her. Beatriz believed the child was unsettled by the long, arduous journeys from one part of her mother’s huge kingdom to another. She was also a girl blessed with a deep awareness of good and evil, attuned to the world of the spirit.

Catalina sniffed and rubbed her eyes. She inhaled another shuddering breath. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I’m all right now. Teacher,” she pointed, “I beg you to re-light that candle.”

The oscillating saffron light of the near fire revealed the dim tower of the blown-out candle, placed near Catalina’s bed. Beatriz lumbered sleepily to relight it. The candle burning bright, she returned to Catalina and sat by her side. “Why are you so afraid of the dark, child?” she asked quietly, aware of their sleeping companions.

Catalina shook her head. “Not the dark... only what it brings.”

“Bad dreams come to all, my infanta.” A slant of blue moonlight slipped through the window and showed Catalina lowering her gaze, as if ashamed.

“Si. But this bad dream won’t leave me alone.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Catalina stared up at her. “An eagle sits on my chest.” She brushed away fresh tears. “It pulls out my heart.”

Taken aback, Beatriz rubbed the side of her face. Why would a child have such a dream? What could she say to her? She weighed up her words slowly and with care. “Believe me, nightmares don’t hurt us. Even in dreams we can call for God’s help, and protection. He turns nightmare back into dream. When you dream this dream, pray to God to make the eagle fly away.”

Catalina looked at her in bewilderment. She seemed struggling with knowledge far beyond that of a child’s. “You don’t understand. ‘Tis when the eagle flies away I wake up weeping.”

···

A few days later, Beatriz sat by the window, reading, near to where Queen Isabel and her four daughters twirled their spindles from their distaffs. Lifting her eyes from her book, she saw Catalina’s companion stick out her tongue and Catalina’s answering grin. The two five-year-olds reddened when Princess Isabel glared at them. Scowling, she gestured to them to return to their task. Beatriz closed her book, listening to the queen.

“One must first give battle before claiming victory. If you do nothing, you end with nothing. Remember well my words – those who do not recognise opportunity when it comes, find misfortune in its place. My hijas, you go to rule alongside your husbands...”

The queen placed a finished spindle in the basket beside her feet before picking up an empty one. Holding it in one hand, she sat up, the fingers of the other hand slipping under her white toca. She combed her fingers through her hair not once or twice, but three times, each time her fingers slower than the last, as if measuring out her words. “Si, you will rule too, but never let them know that. Men believe they possess the upper hand. The wise woman never lets her menfolk know otherwise.”

Twisting her spindle back and forth, Princess Isabel stroked back a few loose strands of fine red/gold hair escaping from her silver hair net, seemingly far-away in her own deep thoughts. Shimmering with rainbows, tiny pearls glistened like tear drops throughout the weave of silver. On her stool, Juana swivelled from watching her older sister, her deep blue eyes now turned to the queen.

“Mother... may I ask who has the greater power – you or our lord father?”

Lifting her thin eyebrows, the queen’s face spoke her surprise. Taking in her daughter’s seriousness, she smiled. “Your question gives me pleasure, my Juana. You should think about such matters. As for the answer – your father and I work in partnership and I share my rule with him. He is my king, and my beloved lord.”

Twirling her spindle with confidence, Maria piped in, her usual reticence seemingly all forgotten. “I don’t understand, Mother. I hear the priests say husbands are always the heads of their wives. But you and Father –” the infanta shifted upon the stool, clearly ill at ease, “‘tis not like that at all.”

The queen dropped her spindle onto her lap, now swinging her approval to her third daughter. “My Joy,” she said, using Maria’s nickname. Queen Isabel used it so often her siblings had taken to using it, too. “You’re right to remember well the teachings of the church. But God places us in a peculiar position – a position where we serve Him by offering up ourselves. That is the duty of our royal blood.”

“But will not our husbands be our heads, Mother?” She darted a look at Beatriz. “Yesterday, Latina discussed with us the words of Aristotle.” Maria’s face frowned in concentration. “Juana – do you remember?”

“‘Men’s courage is shown in commanding and women’s in obeying,’” Juana answered.

Thoughtfully, the queen picked up the spindle again, her long fingers pulling at the woollen thread from the distaff, keeping the thread taut and even. She glanced aside at Juana. “‘And the male is naturally more fit to command than the female, excepting where there is a miscarriage of nature.’” The queen laughed with grimness. “I have heard it all before, and too many times. Aristotle also said, ‘The male is by nature superior and the female inferior; one rules and the other is ruled.’ I confess something to you, my hijas. I think often of the words of our ancestor, Alfonso the Wise. He said, ‘Had I been present at the creation, I would have given some useful hints for the better ordering of the universe.’” Her spindle stopped twirling and she yanked at the thread. “This world is a hard one for women, but we make the best of our lot. Since time began, men and women suffer and learn... women most of all.”

The queen straightened. “Learn from me here, my hijas. Let your husbands think they are the head, let them be the head when times allow, but always be ready to do what God tells you is right. Listen to your hearts and souls, as well as to your minds.” She drummed the spindle against the black velvet of her habito, pulled taut over her thigh. “You four are hijas of two proud royal houses. Your marriages will work towards giving our land stronger ties and power throughout Christendom, all for the glory of God. Think too what it means for your brother if we place his sisters in positions to help him as the king ruling two kingdoms.

“My hijas, work towards forging strong friendships and alliances with people who will best aid and shield you in the future when you no longer have my protection. Whatever befalls you, be watchful. Keep your people close. Never forget to reward those who deserve it, those close to you, and those you want closer. Punish those who betray you and never, ever show yourself weak.

“Hijas, remember this, too – keep your hearts and minds chaste and your bodies from ill and wanton company. Your grandmother raised me in honesty and with much care for my purity, and I have done the same for you girls. ‘Tis not just your bodies I speak about here. I tell you in truth, we gain nothing if we lose our souls. Rulers, too, must remember this.” The queen grinned, a smile embracing all her daughters in its warmth. “We are the blood of the Trastámara. Strong, God-fearing women make up the fabric of our royal house, women you can be proud of – think you of your ancestress, Saint Isabel. My four girls will be worthy of them, for already you make me proud. Enough said.” She glanced at Catalina. “Child, do you wish to begin us in Latin conversation?”

Dropping her spindle upon her lap, Catalina sat straighter, her hands holding the sides of her square stool. She nodded, her eyes alert, shining, eager.

The queen laughed, a gentle laugh she saved for private moments with her children. “Uno Piqueño, your poor mother became a student far later than you. Pray, give me at least a few minutes before you outpace me. Indeed, if all you girls could remember who is queen here?”

Seeing the queen’s proud gaze, Beatriz joined in with her daughters’ laughter before re-opening her book and resuming her reading.