Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (21 page)

Catalina grinned at her before looking crestfallen. She snatched the book from the table. “Latina, this must go back to Juana. Her new tutor, Doctor Miranda, gave it to her for her study and I’ve kept it too long. I am forbidden to see my sister. Could you please take it for me?”

Beatriz heaved a sigh. If she were Juana’s tutor, she would just locate another copy of the book from the queen’s well-stocked library. After borrowing it from her sister, Catalina hadn’t stopped talking about it or reading its pages aloud. Already, the girl knew passages from the book off by heart. Like many before her, Boethius’s doctrine spoke to her. Catalina wanted to believe she also had the capability to survive the ill winds of fortune, and often talked about how God used fate as a tool to shape them. Of all the queen’s daughters, Catalina was the one to truly love knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Her intellect grew apace with her age and more.

Knocking on the heavy wooden door of Juana’s bedchamber, Beatriz heard no answer. She opened the door. Deeper in the large chamber, the inner doors opened wide to the balcony. Padding inside the room, she saw Juana looking out on deep valleys awash with pale oceans of mist. Dawn’s light tempered the girl’s form in soft light.

The wind blew stronger and whined, twirling Juana’s long, dark hair, up and down, the thin strands of her tresses slithering snakes around her white face like Medusa. The wind’s power pulled taut the folds of Juan’s red habito, accentuating tiny waist and maiden breasts, lifting the gown skirts to reveal narrow, naked feet. Between her breasts, hanging on a black ribbon, a red ruby flashed and winked with light. Passed down many generations, her grandmother had given the ruby to Juana on her twelfth birthday.

Juana’s air of grief halted Beatriz halfway into the chamber. The girl opened the golden cage of her small parrot. Beating rainbow wings against the cage, the bird squawked.

“’Tis wrong to keep beauty caged, ’tis wrong to cage living things,” she said, stroking its feathers. Calmed by her touch, the bird perched on her hand, fluttering a little. Tenderly, she drew it out of the cage. The parrot ruffled feathers and fluttered wings. Juana let out a cut-off sob.

“I can no longer bear to see you so unhappy. God gave you the gift of flight...” she flung out her hand in half an arch, “... be free and fly.”

Flying a short burst, the parrot first settled on the half wall of the balcony. Juana rushed towards it, weeping with heart-broken abandon, waving her hands. The small bird spread its wings and flew away.

Juana sobbed, clinging to the lace stone rail of her balcony. In the skies, a small bird flapped its rainbow wings higher and higher until, at last, it disappeared from view. Beatriz stepped softly back to the door, not wanting the infanta to see her, desiring to intrude no more. Her heart sad, she left the room still holding the book. Its return could wait for another time.

‘El vencido vencido, y el vencidor
perdido’
The conquered conquered, and the conqueror
undone
~ Castilian proverb

T
he midday sun beat down without mercy. Light-headed, Beatriz wiped the dripping sweat from her brow, sweltering in her heavy clothes. Her mule sidestepped upon the uneven, sun-parched ground, rocking her violently in the saddle-chair. She tightened her hold on the reins, and heeled the mule to canter to sounder ground. She bit back a curse and then another. The wind gusted strong on the summer-seared banks of the River Tagus, blowing dust into her eyes, offering no relief from the heat.

Juana, the last of the royal family to do so, rode her mule to the other side of the wide river. Waiting for her own turn to cross, impatient for their journey to come to an end and finally to arrive at Alcántara, Beatriz noticed Juana’s pale, tense face, and recognised the girl shared her impatience too. The infanta reached halfway across the river. She stiffened in the saddle-chair and swung her mule whip to hit its flank, as if urging her mule to greater speed. Beatriz’s heart almost stopped when the animal stumbled into stronger currents. Deep water swished and splashed at the bottom of Juana’s saddle-chair. Swaying on her panicked mount, she looked down, then back towards her parents. Juana straightened up in her saddle-chair and tried to regain control of her mule. That very moment, the situation worsened.

“Mother of God!” gasped Juana’s duena. Mounted next to Beatriz, the woman watched the infanta, horrified. Out of the river’s safe depths, Juana’s mount had lost its footing. It staggered, stumbling again, throwing the infanta head first into the deep water. For a terrifying moment, she vanished from view. In the rush of water, her dark mantle billowed like an overblown rose, with its petals about to drop.

Voices shouted out from both sides of the river. Beatriz’s young mount surged forward, threatening to bolt. It took all her strength, and two stable boys snatching its bridle, to keep the terrified mule from hurling itself from the bank into the river.

Beatriz swung her gaze back to the river. Juana, her veil and mantle lost in the currents, now clung for dear life to her saddle-chair, angled and tottering on the mule’s back. Her huge frightened eyes rendered her a child again, rather than a fifteen-year-old princess preparing to leave her family to become a consort of a prince. The rolling-eyed mule appeared too shocked to move, other than to give way, slow step by slow step, to the pull of the currents. A swirling torrent of water rushed and smacked around its body.

On the other side of the river the queen and king galloped their mounts back toward the water’s edge, their three remaining daughters and son close behind them. Catalina bowed forward in her saddle-chair, a hand fanning across the lower part of her face, watching her sister struggle frantically in the river.

Too far away for Beatriz to hear, the queen spoke and gestured to King Ferdinand. Motionless, he seemed to watch some play-acting, rather than the life and death struggle of his own daughter. Turning from her husband, the queen twisted on her mule and lifted a hand. In answer, a stable boy broke from the crowd of men and women of the court and rushed to her side. The queen spoke a command and the boy whipped his mule, charging into the river, hollering out a cry fit for the battlefield.

On the two banks of the river, silence settled over the crowd of courtiers. Everyone watched the youth head toward the infanta. Time stilled, and it seemed to Beatriz that they all took roles in a painting, people in various stances, frozen together, locked in a moment, a breath, that might yet unfreeze to the reality of grief and loss.

The youth wrapped a rope around his waist and attached it to his own mule, and then swam the short but dangerous distance to Juana. He seized the bridle of her baying mule, tugging with all his strength and that of his mule towards safer river depths. Cheers echoed from both river banks. A few more heart-stopping moments, and Juana and her mule came close enough to the other bank for a group of courtiers to go in after her. They carried the fainted Juana from the water.

The queen rushed to her daughter’s side while the king rode over to speak to the stable boy. Later that day at Alcántara, the court coming to rest like a stork to its nest, Beatriz heard the king rewarded the stable boy by promoting him to keeper of the silver.

···

Female voices murmured close by. Hastily making her way back to the queen, Beatriz turned into the hallway and almost ran into Juana, half-in and half-out of her chamber’s doorway. Fully recovered from her near drowning three days ago, she huddled with her blackamoor slave over an open scroll. Seeing Beatriz, the slave’s head ducked as if a whip threatened her. Christened Catalina by the queen, in honour of her daughter, the Moor took the parchment from Juana, fast closing it before Beatriz saw more than a few well-drawn astrology symbols.

Juana smoothed down her gown, visibly relaxing, and clasped her hands before her. “’Tis but our La Latina. There’s no need to worry,” she said quietly to her slave. The slave Catalina licked her lips, holding the scroll tight to her breasts, underneath crossed-over arms. Her thin shoulders shook as she glanced around. The terror on her face rendered her far older than just fourteen.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Juana grabbed Beatriz’s arm, her fingers digging so deep Beatriz yelped with pain. She pulled Beatriz through her doorway. Catalina followed, shutting the chamber’s door behind her. Closing her eyes, she leaned against it, the parchment still held to her chest.

“Don’t worry, Latina keeps our secrets.” Juana glared at Beatriz. “She knows what would happen if she did not.”

Beatriz stared at the roll of parchment in the slave’s arms. “What is it, Infanta?” As soon as Beatriz spoke the words, she wanted to call them back, wanting to go. For the first time in her life, the infanta frightened her.

Juana took the parchment from the slave “Did you see anything?”

Beatriz shook her head. “Symbols of the zodiac, that’s all.” The slave released a long, held-in breath. Juana glanced at her. Taking the scroll from her, Juana turned to Beatriz in decision. “I trust you to say nothing of this. If you betray my trust, you’d be responsible for whatever happens – my slave being whipped for one.”

Beatriz gazed at the closed door, and then back at Juana. She lifted her chin. “I don’t want your secrets, Infanta. Keep them.” She curtseyed. “With your permission, I must go to the queen.”

Juana took Beatriz’s arm again, but gently this time. Her tight smile offered her an apology. “Forgive me, but I do no wrong here.” When she glanced at the slave, Beatriz wondered whether to believe her.

With a deep breath, Juana whispered close to Beatriz’s ear, “My father has always forbidden me to cast my own horoscope, but coming so close to death the other day, I asked my slave to do it for me. So, I haven’t disobeyed the king, my father, have I? My slave did it for me, not I.”

Beatriz stared at her in horror, knowing what the king would think. She hoped for Juana’s sake the king stayed unaware of that parchment in the slave’s hands. Not only did she risk punishment for her slave, but she risked it for herself too. “He forbade you to do this?” Beatriz gazed at the slave. She held the parchment to her as if it somehow protected her. “Why? There’s no harm in looking at the alignment of our birth stars. All do it.”

Juana lowered her eyes and shrugged. “I know not the reason why my father commanded this, only that he has.” She nodded to her slave. “Open the door. Latina will not betray me.”

Dearest One,

Pray forgive me for the delay in replying to your last letter, but much has happened since last time I wrote. We have had important visitors at the queen’s court. A weary group of Englishmen arrived almost a month ago. After their first welcome, they barely had a day’s rest before torchbearers brought them to stand before the king and queen in the great hall. I stood near the royal children, while other attendants spread out at distance from the dais of the queen and king. How the eyes of the men widened at the sight of our two monarchs in their jewels and rich clothes. Upon the dais, sitting close together on their thrones, the queen and king were garbed in cloth of gold edged with sable. Cloth of gold hung behind them too, quartered with the arms of Castile and Aragon and the words of their motto: Tanto monta, monta tanto – Isabel como Ferdinand, as much as the one is worth so much is the other – Isabel as Ferdinand.

The queen draped a black velvet cloak, edged with gold and rubies, over her golden gown. With every movement, the queen’s jewels shimmered and flashed in torch and candle-light. That night the English fell on their knees and bowed low, greeting Queen Isabel and her husband as “kings”. I could not help smiling when my infanta lifted her head with pride.

Much feasting, costly entertainments and long, private meetings with the king and queen followed over the coming days. There is news of more unrest in England. With the support of the Scottish king, the young man claiming to be Richard IV invaded England with his army. He was little welcomed by the English and soon was pushed back into Scotland. In recent days, the Duke of Milan has written to the queen, asking her and the king to broach Scotland and negotiate with them a peace with England. When the men departed, they took back with them not only gifts for their royal family, but also what the King of England desired: a new treaty for Catalina’s marriage.

The infanta Catalina is now formally betrothed. Catalina stood in her mother’s presence chamber, and appealed to the papal delegate to allow her to wed before reaching legal age. She then wed England’s prince and heir by proxy. Si, still only in her tenth year, my princess’s life now belongs to England, and a prince she has never
seen…

···

Their backs slouched against the wall, Catalina and Maria sat on the wooden bench in the library, listening intently. “How Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud came unto England,” Beatriz read, “and how Sir Lancelot’s brought them to Joyous Gard. Then La Beale Isoud and Sir Tristram took their vessel and came by water into this land. And so they were not in this land four days but there came a cry of a jousts and tournament that King Arthur let make –”

Hearing Juana call out to her sister, Beatriz stopped reading. Even so, Maria’s gaze adhered to the illumination of Beale Isoud and Sir Tristram and a dreamy look settled on her young face. The knight and his ladylove was so vibrantly painted, the picture seemed lit from within by myriad candles.
No wonder they name such things illuminations.
The girls had asked her to read to them the story of Isoud and Tristram. She pushed down her discomfort. Perhaps she should have chosen something to help them deal with real life, rather than see them take to heart stories of courtly love.

Catalina glanced aside at her friend. “You need not come.” Laughter bubbled in her voice.

“No, no, I’ll attend you,” Maria said. Beatriz smiled, shutting the precious book. At ten, the girls strived to act adult.

With her usual impatience, Juana stepped out of the open doorway and into the sunlit corridor. Beatriz studied Juana. White-washed walls on either side seemingly caging the girl, Juana’s fine black hair was precisely parted down the middle, arranged so carefully, so tautly, conflicted with the flashing, midnight blue eyes and a passionate mouth. Not yet sixteen, Juana was the fairest of all the queen’s four daughters. Aware of it, she held this knowledge to her as a shield, sometimes acting condescendingly to her less beautiful sisters. The other royal daughters, content with their own measure of beauty and rarely victim to their father’s darker side, understood. The four sisters loved one another. Sharing these last days together, Juana readying to leave her mother’s court and sail across winter seas for her new life in Flanders, the sisters seemed closer than ever.

Maria shuffled her over-large feet away from her skirts, her black, tight slippers doing little to disguise their true size. She looked at Juana with jealousy. Beatriz could not help wondering if Maria was remembering the painting in the book. The artist had depicted the knight’s ladylove with tiny, graceful feet, so alike to Juana’s. The infanta, on the threshold of young womanhood, made Catalina and Maria but pale moon slips set against the bright noonday sun. Juana’s zenith was here and now, whilst they still lingered in their dayspring. Beatriz thanked God for it.

“Hurry!” Juana called, looking back over her shoulder. “Mother wants to walk with us while the fair weather lasts.”

Stretching like a waking cat, Beatriz arose a trice after her two students, returning the book to the table in the school-room. She set it carefully between the other two volumes telling of King Arthur’s court. A well-thumbed volume of
El Cid
rightly crowned the three books.

Down the corridor she saw the two infantas and Maria, waiting for her to catch up. Standing side-by-side, Juana towered over Catalina. Tiny in size... gazing at her small princess, answering her wide smile with her own, Beatriz couldn’t deny Catalina was surely that. But she made up for her lack of height in many ways. Already greatness blazed its promise around her – a promise beyond the fleeting beauty of soon corrupted flesh. Si, Juana may be the noon-day sun, but already a new star rose in the dawn’s horizon and shone.

···

A ribbon of unending gold, the sandy beach stretched and curved towards the land-locked embrace of smoke-blue mountains. The setting sun dyed the sea pink and orange. Luminous, it shimmered and swelled, the white froth, streaked and flecked by the sun, going in and out, in and out, onto the beach. Seabirds flying out to sea changed from white to orange to pink and finally to spots of darkness on the horizon before disappearing from sight.

Despite the evening’s chill, Beatriz walked barefoot, holding up her habito
from the packed, wet sand. The infantas had also kicked off their slippers. Catalina and Maria walked together, hand-in-hand. Far behind, her grumbles no longer heard, the infanta Maria’s newly appointed duena carried the girl’s silk slippers, protecting them from ruin. Exchanging a quick look with one another, Catalina raced against Maria de Salinas. Despite her shorter legs, Catalina made it difficult for Maria to win.