Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (22 page)

Catalina swung around and grabbed Maria’s hand. Holding up their gowns, the girls danced around and round, making a circle in the sand. Maria laughed and laughed. Letting go of Catalina, she collapsed on the ground. Half-lying on the sand, rubbing her belly, Maria gazed up at the clouds and pointed. “Look. A galleon sails in the heavens.”

Catalina sat beside her friend, drawing up her knees. Her eyes scanned the skies. “No longer a galleon, see. The wind breaks it apart and turns it into two angels.” Her eyes shone. “’Twas a ship of God you saw.”

Maria looked at the clouds, and then glanced first at Catalina and then Beatriz. Shyly, she grinned. “Let me try a poem.” She looked back at the clouds, gnawed her lower lip for a moment. “All right. Tell me what you think:

Scattered clouds,
Wisps of cloud
White, billowing clouds
Pregnant cloud,
Life-giving clouds.

Thin streaks of cloud,
Banner cloud,
Shape-forming cloud,
Storytelling clouds.

Clouds made golden,
By bright sunlight
When the Sun
Beats against
Dense grey veils
Of cloud.”

Catalina giggled. “Far better than your last attempt. We might yet call you a poet.” The girls helped one another up, still searching the skies. Beatriz knew it distracted them from what happened now, upon this beach.

A fair way ahead, her arm threaded through her daughter’s, the queen walked and talked with Juana. Loosened and lifted by wind, the infanta’s ebony locks gleamed with the blue shine of a crow’s wing. The low murmur of their voices drifted to them whenever the brisk, chilling wind dropped or the surf pulled back to a quieter roar.

Early next morning, if the weather continued to be good, Juana and a large party from her mother and father’s courts would board the ships now waiting in the royal bay of Laredo, the ships that waited to take Juana to her marriage to Philip of Flanders. Before the infanta boarded her ship, the queen would bid the girl farewell, leaving her second daughter to face her future.

“Come,” Catalina said. She pulled Maria along for another race, their feet sinking into the sand. They faltered when Juana crumbled against her mother. The wind carried to them her unconstrained sobs. Holding her daughter, grief carved upon the queen a stillness none dared near.

Catalina and Maria clasped hands, looking back the way they had come. Water filled their small footprints, making tiny pools reflecting back the vivid colours of the setting sun.

A few steps away, Prince Juan, the gloaming burnishing his tousled hair gold, coughed behind his hand. Standing with his sisters Isabel and Maria, Juan, like his two sisters, gazed out at sea, pretending unawareness of Juana and their mother’s grief.

Overlooking the bay, upon sandy hills, tall tufts of green grass growing here and there, the family guards stood at watch, archery bows at the ready. Beatriz wondered what they thought, watching this drama enacted on the beach. Queen Isabel held her daughter as if she would never let her go.

Catalina dropped Maria’s hand and looked at Beatriz as if for reassurance. “My mother’s afraid. I have never seen her so afraid.” She picked up a shell from the yellow sand, tossing it out towards the surf. The white shell arched far in the air before disappearing into the water. Dark storm clouds on the horizon-edged sea and crimson cloud ribbons streaked the sky.

“’Tis being forced to send your sister at the beginning of winter,” Beatriz said, gazing again at the ocean.

Maria spoke the words she dared not voice. “They say the sea crossing is not for the weak-hearted.”

Catalina laughed as if discomforted. “Juana isn’t weak-hearted. Father says Juana’s heart rules her head. She is a slave to her emotions. That’s Juana’s weakness, my father says.” She gazed at Beatriz. Clearly guilty for saying so much, Catalina blustered out, “If only he was here to lift mother’s heart. Alas, his soldiers have great need of him.”

Beatriz gazed at the grieving daughter and mother and pondered Catalina’s words. No more did the child express doubts about her father’s motives. It had taken the king many months to recover from the attempted assassination, that and his frequent absences returned him, unquestioningly, to Catalina’s loving heart. Far better, Beatriz thought, the king remained with his soldiers. She could easily imagine his black-froth fury at both his wife and daughter for their public display of emotions. On the eve of her departure, Juana especially did not deserve his contempt for her unchecked tears.

Staring down at the sand squeezing through her toes, Beatriz’s thoughts pounded in her mind like the surf on this beach. The queen was so alone, so miserable – bereft of the comfort of the man who held her heart in the palm of his hand. He failed her as he did his daughters. Beatriz glanced up at Juan, still struggling to stop coughing. He even failed the prince, giving him a poor example of manhood to follow. Rather than uncompromising, so often pitiless kingship, King Ferdinand would be better to show the prince a loving, compassionate and noble heart. But how could he do this when he lacked those very qualities?

Wretched for the queen but helpless too, Beatriz stepped away from the royal family, picked up two scallop shells from the sand, and studied them. So alike, yet so different, each one shaped by the elements to their own special uniqueness.

She slipped the more perfect shell into the hidden pocket of her gown, and traced the fan of the other, beauty etched in simplicity, humbled at the art wrought by God. It was no wonder pilgrims of Santiago took the shell for their symbol. Not only did Christians love the shell, but once pagans did too. The scallop shell, coupled with the sea, symbolised eternity and rebirth.

Beatriz held the shell up to the light. Watching the translucent fan draw in the colours from the lowering sun, she wondered if she could do a painting of it. She walked slowly alongside the sea, looking at the meandering trail of shells marking the tide of the surf. Why just one? Why not a whole border of shells? White shells emblazoned by light.

In her mind, Beatriz saw her painting take shape, the canvas edged with scallop shells, all of them unique. She looked back at Catalina, seeing her beside Prince Juan, his arm protectively around her. Like the shells, her students too were unique. She made her way back to them, hearing the prince speak: “Is it any surprise our mother’s heart breaks? She is worried she sends Juana into danger or worse. But she is queen. ’Tis her duty to let her go, as she will do with all of us.”

Without warning, Princess Isabel strode towards the sea, the trailing hem of her black habito becoming drenched by the outgoing tide. She gazed all around, as if seeking a way to escape. She looked aside at her siblings, her huge eyes welling with tears. “Soon, it will be my turn again.”

For the last five years, Isabel had devoted herself wholly to God. For five years, she clung onto the hope of taking the veil, despite the continual refusal of her mother and father. Isabel gazed at the sky, closed her eyes, and swallowed. The pulse in her neck beat hard and fast, like a caged, wild bird. She opened tormented, haunted eyes. In spite of the passing years, she had never stopped sorrowing over the loss of Prince Alfonso. It was a grief darkening and eating away at her spirit.

Beatriz clasped the shell in her fist, its sharp edge almost cut into her flesh, and a cold finger stilled her heart. She thought of Francisco. He was so far from her, living day-by-day a life flirting with danger and death. Loving always carried with it such burden, the danger it could destroy as well as give joy. She remembered her father once telling her that love was a two-edged sword. He had never recovered from losing his wife, and died only months after Beatriz left their home. But he also told her when you love – really loved – it becomes part of your whole being, something you never lose. Surely, that was true?

Princess Isabel stepped further into the surf. For a moment, Beatriz feared she wanted the sea to sweep her away. “No more I say! I don’t want this duty.” Isabel’s words were like a scream that competed with the surf.

Prince Juan reached out and enfolded her hands with his own. Coughing, he pulled her back to drier sand. “Sister, sister. Please, I beg you, don’t let grief destroy you. Leave this darkness, Isabel, I beg you, and take joy in life.”

Tears fell down Isabel’s cheeks and dripped onto her neck. She inhaled a deep, ragged breath and shook her head. “Juan, you don’t know. You’ve no notion of how I fight every day to live – and how I hate it when Father and Mother remind me of my duty to marry again. One marriage is all I want, and Alfonso my only husband. I don’t want to be ever unfaithful to him – even in memory. I sicken at the thought of another man touching me.” Isabel bent her head. “Our lord father tells me Portugal has again said no to Maria. I’m to marry Alfonso’s cousin. Father refuses to listen to me... refuses to give me more time.” Isabel closed her eyes tight, wrapping her arms around her body. The coarse black habito, pulled tight about her form, revealed Isabel’s years spent in fasting and vigils. Her body was simply taut skin over far too slender bones.

Isabel muttered, her voice tear-drenched, “Castilian princesses never cry without good cause. They do their duty. Duty!” With a savage cry, she opened her eyes and kicked at the sand. “How I hate that word! Hate it, hate it, hate it!”

She whirled back into the surf, stumbling to her knees. The foam licked, eddying froth around her skirts.

Juan lost all colour and left Catalina standing alone, taking his older sister in his arms. Waves splashed their lower bodies, soaking the silk and velvets of the prince’s rich robes and Isabel’s chosen nun-like gown. They took no notice. Juan, coughing, hugged his sister tight, his own eyes awash with tears. “Hush, sweet Isabel. You who have so often been like a second mother to us four coming after. I wish I could give you true comfort. I cannot. You are the eldest child of our parents. Look into your heart and tell me you never knew this day would come.”

Her face hidden in his doublet, Isabel clutched at him like one drowning and spoke with a muffled voice. “I prayed so hard, so hard every day, for this cup to be taken from me.”

Beatriz trembled, her heart full of pity, unable to take her eyes away. Isabel had so hoped her parents would relent and allow her to become a nun. Perchance the hope had increased because the queen, who loved her daughter dearly, stalled her husband whenever he suggested it was time for Isabel to face again the marriage bed of diplomacy.

Juan shook his sister gently, helping her to her feet. “Think what your marriage will do – again unite Portugal and our parents’ kingdoms. Our parents worked hard and sacrificed much to make their two kingdoms united and strong. You wedding Portugal’s king is but another of our mother’s sacrifices.”

“Mother’s sacrifice, Juan?” Isabel laughed with bitterness. “What about me? Brother, it is I who our mother sacrifices.” She gazed towards Juana and her mother, and then back at her two sisters who stood nearby, listening, still as statues. “All her daughters are! We are the lambs our parents sacrifice upon the altar of power. Sometimes I wonder if the profession of our parents’ love is but the Judas sheep leading us to our fate.” Isabel shut her eyes, as if struggling for composure. Catalina’s companion, Maria, edged closer to Catalina’s side, clasping her hand.

“I knew Alfonso and loved him. Loved him, Juan! Do you know what that means? I still love Alfonso. My heart belongs to him. Only to him! His cousin Manuel – I barely know him. And I don’t want to know him! I curl up inside and die a little whenever I think about another marriage.”

Juan gazed towards his mother and his other sister. Smaller in the distance, they walked hand-in-hand, leaving a trail of footsteps behind them. Grimacing, he glanced back over the long way they had walked this evening, to the other side of the harbour where a fleet from the king’s navy, two carracks and one hundred caravels and more, rocked in the bay. Even at this distance the wind carried to them the complaint of wood groaning in the sea and sailor songs. Tightening his embrace on his sister, Juan kissed the top of her head, cushioning his chin there. Beatriz gnawed her bottom lip, concerned about the Prince. He was so pale. Taught from birth to take his burden of responsibilities seriously, in recent years Prince Juan was less inclined to venture out to ride with his sisters. Ritual cloaked almost every moment of his life. From morning to night, it choked his spirit, leaving him increasingly rigid in public and stripped of every ounce of spontaneity. Royalty robbed him of a true season of youth, leaving him far older than his years.

“Sweet sister, Juana goes to a man she has never met. As will Maria and Catalina. I too wed a stranger, who comes with the return of our father’s ships.” He turned his face, coughed again, and shrugged. “’Tis the destiny of princes. Look to our parents – they wed only days after meeting one another for the first time. Yet they love truly. We must hope for the same for ourselves. Hope eases our journey in this world. I beg you, Isabel, try to hope, try to believe you can be happy again.”

And I beg you to be
served
By the present
treatise
Very perfect infanta,
Furnished with
virtues
And prudent at a very tender
age;
In much you follow the
shining
Great Queen of
Castile
Who is the fountain of
virtues.
~ Pedro Marcuello’s ode to Juana

B
eatriz sat in the embrasure with Catalina and her sisters, all of them watching the queen read the letter, the dry parchment crackling as it moved in her eager hands. Concentration scored a frown between her greying, thin eyebrows. Lifting her eyes from the letter, relief lessened the worry lines on her face, and Queen Isabel smiled. “All’s well with Juana. Thanks be to God.”

The king strode across to his wife, taking the letter. Closing the weak eye inflicted by a cast, he skimmed the page with his good eye. He glanced aside at the queen, his poor eye blinking, readjusting to light.

“More pleasing news, wife. The fleet lost only two of its vessels crossing a winter sea. All is as I hoped, and expected. The ship carrying our hija had the best captain to ensure she arrived safely in Flanders.” His eye squinting again, the king smiled and pointed out a line. “Note here, Juana writes they praise her beauty.”

Queen Isabel held his arm, glancing back at the message. “And her suitability for motherhood.” She swallowed and looked away from the missive, her mouth clenching shut.

The king, his eyes and mouth no longer merry, placed his hand overtop the one on his arm. The queen’s fingers clutched his, keeping his hand imprisoned. He frowned.

“Why so glum, Isabel? Be easy. There’s no better mother than you, and Juana is your hija
.
With little time, she will prove these words right.”

Any suggestion of healthy colour fled from the queen’s face. “Husband, I have told you this before. Juana reminds me too much of my dear mother. She lost her mind after my brother’s birth. I am fearful, my lord. What if the same fate awaits Juana? I pray to God we did right to send her so far from us. She needs love and understanding. What if she finds that lacking in Flanders?”

Carefully the king folded the parchment in half, setting it upon the table beside him. “Pray, forget it, wife. You worry overmuch for her – for all our children. What will be will be. Making yourself ill isn’t going to help matters. Think of the stronger ties we’ve gained by sending Juana to Flanders. Very soon our son’s wife comes, and the ties will be stronger yet. Smile. ’Tis long since I’ve seen you smile, my Isabel.”

The queen leaned on him. Her beautiful green/blue eyes liquid pools, she offered him a tremulous smile. “I am becoming out of practice, my lord. ’Tis good and well I have the company of our children. You’re away far too often, and for other causes than ruling our kingdoms and leading our armies. My lord, I beg you, stay at my side...”

Eye to eye with his wife, the king kissed her slack cheek.

“You know I want that too. I am your slave, now and always. But you know our service to God means there’s much to do. We’re so close to achieving our dream of two united kingdoms for Juan to rule after us. With God’s help, the day will soon come when I never need to leave your side again.”

“I pray God that day is close at hand, Ferdinand.” Espaliered against the king, the queen crossed herself.

Beatriz looked across at the queen’s hands, troubled. She wore no rings – gout swelled her fingers to almost double their natural size.

“And our eldest? Is she now ready to show the face of a willing bride? We cannot stall the Portuguese for much longer. Their patience wears thin, as does mine. We have allowed her five years of widowhood – surely that is enough time for Isabel to put the past behind her. The girl gets no younger.”

Queen Isabel’s anguish shadowed her eyes. She lifted her chin. “Isabel knows her duty. I pray to God we do right in this too. My heart hurts every time I see my daughter’s unhappiness.”

Shrugging, King Ferdinand removed himself from his clinging wife. For a breath, she stood alone, holding out empty arms, before wrapping her arms around herself.

“You make too much of it. Marriage and children is what she needs.”

Queen Isabel gazed at the king, her brow knotting into a brief scowl. “I pray God you are right, husband,” she muttered. Seemingly without any awareness, she dug her heavy crucifix into her breast.

The king turned from his wife and strode to the table, opening another letter. Reading it, his eyes widened, his face loosening and greying to sudden ugliness. His mouth clenched shut and hardened into a thin line. Beatriz met Catalina’s wide eyes as the queen rushed to her husband’s side. “What is it?”

King Ferdinand folded the letter and put it back on the table. He covered it with his hand. “’Tis no matter. Just a letter from Juana’s confessor.”

The queen held out her palm, “Let me read it.”

They stood there gazing at one another, battling out wills, whilst all in the room watched. King Ferdinand passed the letter to her, glancing across at Beatriz and his silent daughters. “Leave us,” he commanded.

Hurrying after Catalina, Beatriz left the room just as the queen gasped. She looked back over her shoulder. Queen Isabel sat on her chair as if her legs suddenly lost all strength, one hand clasped behind her bowed head.

King Ferdinand rested his hand on her shoulder. “I tell you ’tis no matter, Isabel. The girl is safely wed now.”

A terrible, raw sob tore from the queen and the letter fluttered to the ground. “Juana. Oh, my Juana! Why can you never think before you act?”

···

Early the next day the story came to Beatriz. Not from the king and queen – if they still spoke of it, they did it behind closed doors, well away from other ears. But the infanta Maria overheard the gossip of her mother’s women. Distressed, she whispered what she had learnt to Catalina, and Catalina brought the tale to the school-room.

“Do you think your sister has the right of it? How could Philip bed Juana within just one hour of meeting her and before the final wedding vows?” Maria de Salinas looked a picture of confusion.

The day already warm, Catalina wiped at her sweating face. Sunlight coloured her cream habito saffron and rose, and transmuted her hair to gold. “All speak of it. Your lady mother’s so discomforted I think there must be truth in the story. They also say this is what Juana and Philip wanted, and the clerics blessed their marriage,” she said.

“But the final wedding ceremony wasn’t until the next day. They named it an act of love... of great passion...”

Catalina gazed aside at her friend. “You believe that? My sister says Juana arrived in Flanders very ill. You know what she is like then. Speak one word to her and she growls. Philip and Juana don’t even speak the same language. Si, she reads French well, but her spoken French is... impossible. She does not understand the language when people speak too fast.”

Beatriz stared at her. “What are you trying to say, princess?”

Catalina swallowed, glancing first at Beatriz, and then at Maria. “I don’t believe this of my sister. Mother thinks she should have used her woman’s wit to make him wait until at least the next day and the proper ceremony. But think you, what woman’s wit has Juana in this? My sister’s not yet sixteen and gently brought up. Now Juana is surrounded by strangers. What choice did she have but to do what Prince Philip wanted? Did she even know what would happen when he took her to the next room – without even the priest coming with them to bless the bed?” She swallowed again. “Seems to me... seems more... like rape...”

She murmured the last words under her breath. Beatriz studied her. In this school-room, she did not avoid telling the girls terrible events from history when royal women had met the refusal of virgin martyrdom, tossing in unbridled legends of lustful Greeks for good measure. Still, she would have expected twelve-year-old maids to shy away from saying the very word. Beatriz shifted with discomfort on her chair, staring at the high ceiling. The gold swirls decorating it made her head spin.

She closed her eyes and saw Juana sobbing like a child in her mother’s arms the morning before she boarded the ship taking her to Flanders. Catalina was right. How would Juana have known what Phillip intended? Ah, how she pitied Juana
.
She no longer had her mother’s protection. Her fate was now in the hands of her husband.

“Mother says it hurts the first time, and for some time after,” Maria muttered.

Now Beatriz stared at the blushing Maria, glancing with apprehension at the wide-eyed Catalina. “She has spoken to you of such matters?” she asked.

Maria looked at Beatriz in silence.

“Maria – please answer me.”

The young maid squirmed. “My sister wed last year. Mother told Isabel.”

“You never spoke of it to me,” Catalina said.

Blushing again, Maria eyed Catalina. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I, Maria?”

“The queen? Your eldest sister?” Maria offered. The maid glanced at Beatriz. “Latina?”

Catalina reddened now and shook her head. “I could never ask my mother. I can talk to her about so many things, but my tongue ties into knots whenever I think of asking her about what happens abed between a man and a woman. And now she spends all her free time in prayer. How can I ask her?”

“What about the Princess Isabel?”

“Oh Maria! When I asked Isabel, she bolted from the room. Later, my sister suggested I borrow Juan’s copy of Julius Caesar commentaries – written, she said, in very pure Castilian. Like I should strive to be. She told me to exercise my mind by attending to my studies and confess to the priest about thinking of such matters.”

Maria giggled while Beatriz turned away her smile.

“And did you?” Maria asked.

“Did I what?”

“You know what I mean. Why borrow your brother’s book when a copy is in this library? Did you confess to the priest?”

“Of course. He told me to fast and pray with Isabel for God’s help to keep a clean and chaste mind.” Catalina looked across at Beatriz. “Teacher, could Maria please tell me what her sister said.”

Beatriz looked out of the un-shuttered window. The sky was blue, cloudless. A bird winged to land on a nearby tree and sang its courting song as the tree’s green leaves trembled in the breeze. She felt like laughing – in minutes the conversation had gone from disaster to comedy. “We all would need to confess then.”

“We confess always. At least this would give us something new to tell the priests,” Catalina argued.

Beatriz met Maria’s eyes and they both laughed.

“All right. How about if I leave you two girls alone for a time while I go back to my chamber to find that copy of the Commentaries. I borrowed it from the library yesterday.” Beatriz grinned at the two girls. “If there are any areas of confusion, I am certain in my role as your tutor I am allowed to provide answers.” Beatriz left the room, not heading to her chamber but to the garden. She heard the call of spring.

···

Two weeks later, Beatriz hurried with Catalina and Maria in answer to the queen’s summons. They entered the curtained-drawn chamber, one lone candle guttering and smoking in a high sconce. Her daughters Isabel and Maria trying to comfort her, Queen Isabel wept by a cold, unswept fireplace.

Closing the door behind them, Beatriz took Maria’s arm, leading her deeper into the chamber and farther away from the queen and her daughters. Stepping with Maria into the window’s embrasure, she whispered close to the girl’s ear. “We’ll stay. Catalina might yet need us.”

The infantas Maria and Catalina now knelt by the queen’s side. Isabel gripped her mother’s shoulders, her pale face pinched, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “What has Juana done this time?”

The queen sniffed, blowing her nose. She leaned against the intricate carving of the chair’s high back. “Not Juana, ’tis nought to do with my Juana...”

Dressed in hunting clothes, Prince Juan broke into the room, his blue eyes searching for his mother. Beatriz started, gulping back a bubble of laughter. Struck in various poses, the prince’s men took one look at the scene within. The closest man unfroze and shut the door fast between him and the royal family.

“What’s wrong?” Juan cried, his long legs bringing him to his mother in no time. Queen Isabel reached out her arms to him, her eyes welling with tears. “Son, my Angel.”

Falling to his knees, he took her hand, gazing up at his older sister. Expressionlessly, Isabel shrugged. The younger infantas nestled closer to their mother, holding her tighter.

Hooking a finger under his belt, Juan frowned. Unnoticed next to Maria, Beatriz almost forgot the queen’s sorrow for a moment. For the first time she saw Juan as a grown man.

“Mama, you’re frightening us. I beg you, what has happened?”

“My beloved mother...” The queen pulled Catalina and Maria closer. “She’s dead.”

“Mama!” Isabel gasped, the younger infantas looking up in shock.

Prince Juan massaged his mother’s hand. Beatriz could easily guess his thoughts. The younger royals dreaded the times when the queen visited her sixty-eight-year-old mother. The queen’s mother’s black moods and sudden bouts of inconsolable weeping frightened them. Living a life of enforced isolation, their grandmother only recognised her daughter, gazing at her grandchildren with glazed bewilderment. The old queen knew them somehow connected to her, but Beatriz had long stopped counting the times she called Prince Juan by the name of her own long dead son.

For months the queen’s mother loosened her hold on life, no longer wanting to eat or drink. On her last visit, Queen Isabel sat down beside her mother and fed her with her own hands. Perchance, Beatriz thought, the queen’s mother’s death should be regarded as a blessing.

Prince Juan kissed his mother’s hand. “Mama, no more weeping. Your mother is now at peace, and with God,” he comforted.

Red rash splotching her face, Queen Isabel flailed out her hands, snatching at Juan and Isabel’s clothes. “Si. With God, and my poor, poor brother, Alfonso. God bless both their souls.” Queen Isabel gazed at her eldest daughter. “I named you for her. Despite everything, every day we were together I knew her love. She called Alfonso and me her gifts from God – as you five are to me.”