Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (24 page)

“And the snow? You haven’t told us about the snow?” Catalina asked.

Beatriz turned to Maria. “Can you give the princess an answer, child?”

Maria blinked, shaking her head with such vigour her roundlet became lopsided.

Beatriz pursed her lips. “Maria, if you thought long about it, you’d know the reason.”

Catalina giggled, fanning short fingers at her hips. Firelight twinkled the large ruby in her new thumb ring, a recent gift from the English king, given in the name of his son. “I don’t think Maria wishes to think about anything today. Surely you know cold days turn her into a cat wanting only a warm spot near the fire? You had better just tell us.”

Beatriz stretched out her hands again to the fire’s heat. The cold of the day seemed to be seeping into her very bones. “A simple thing really, and most likely thought of before today,” She shrugged again and faced the girls. “Perchance I may have read or heard of this already, but I cannot recall it. Perchance from Aristotle...” She grinned. “Putting snow on the inverted lid caused condensation to form inside the pot and then rained rosewater in the waiting pot.”

All at once, Beatriz felt dizzy and ill. She put one hand on the swell of her belly, and the other over her mouth. “Pray, excuse me –” She hurried behind the screen, grabbed her chamber pot and vomited. Dry retching, she heard the girls speaking.

“She must be with child,” Maria said. Beatriz retched again, overlaying it with a few choice words she had learnt from Francisco.

“With child?” Catalina asked. “Isn’t she too old?”

Still dizzy and retching, Beatriz now fought back the urge to laugh.

“No, not too old,” Maria said. “But didn’t she tell us that she did not believe her marriage would see the blessing of children?”

Someone clapped, and the princess spoke. “’Tis like the story of Saint Elizabeth. How pleased she must be.”

Still nauseous, Beatriz returned to the girls and sat on the stool again, avoiding the eyes of her students. An uneasy silence fell.

Catalina cleared her throat. “Does Don Francisco Ramirez know?”

Beatriz licked her dry lips. Francisco still served the queen, spending long weeks away from court fighting against the Moors who still resisted the queen’s yoke. “No – he doesn’t know. Can I beg you both to say nothing? To no one, please.”

Catalina gazed aside at her. “Not even my mother?”

Beatriz reached for Catalina’s hand, clasping it in both of hers. “Especially not to her, my princess.” She licked her dry lips again. “I do not want to be the cause of giving the queen needless worry. She doesn’t know, and I don’t want her to. Not yet.”

Maria blinked, and turned a look of bewilderment on Beatriz. “But she’ll know sooner or later, si?”

Keeping hold of Catalina’s hand, she now reached for Maria’s “You must both promise not to say a word of this to the queen. I cannot tell you how important that is to me.”

“But the queen will know –” Maria interjected.

Beatriz shook her head. “By all the saints in Heaven, not for a long while if I can help it,” she muttered, as if vowing to God Himself. She gazed first at Catalina and then at Maria, feeling like a trapped animal, desperate for escape.

“Princess. Dońa Maria, if the queen knew...” She swallowed hard, lifting her chin. “I am not certain if the queen would want me to continue as your tutor if she knew I’m with child.” She pressed her fingers into her temples. “Pray help me hide it from the world a little longer.” Beatriz glanced at them, her tears blurring her sight. “Have I your promise not to say a word to the queen, not to anyone? Let me have more time to work out how to convince the queen that I can stay at court and teach, without her thinking she needs to send me away from here to be a wife and mother.”

Have patience and the mulberry leaf will become
satin.
~ Castilian proverb

L
ater that day, Beatriz made out the first hazy glimpse of the returning party as they crested a near hill. She pointed them out to Catalina. “Look! The princess rides between the king and prince.”

Shielding her eyes, Catalina leaned on the balcony. “Is she pretty?”

Beatriz laughed, lounging beside her. “How can I tell? At this distance she could be Helen of Troy brought back to life. All I can tell you now is the honour bestowed on her by the king – she rides beside him – and that the princess rides like a true horsewoman.”

Catalina bent forward for a better view. “I see them now.”

The royal party close now, the girl between the prince and the king twisted in her saddle-chair, turning in the prince’s direction. The gloaming light illumined her strawberry blonde hair and profiled her pert, turned-up nose. Prince Juan twisted in his saddle too. It seemed their movement towards each other strummed the notes of a song, echoing bird songs in spring. Beatriz grinned. “I think the prince and princess already like each other very much.”

···

At her table in the library, Beatriz pretended to read a book. Maria and Catalina, sitting close together in the nearby window-seat, had clearly forgotten her presence – or perhaps they did not care if she heard them or not.

Maria read out loud: “Without permitting anyone else to lay a hand on him, the lady herself washed Salabaetto all over with soap scented with musk and cloves. She then had herself washed and rubbed down by the slaves. This done, the slaves brought two fine and very white sheets, so scented with roses that they seemed like roses; the slaves wrapped Salabaetto in one and the lady in the other and then carried them both on their shoulders to the bed.”

Catalina leaned back, glancing out at the bright morning. Threads of bird songs looped an embroidery of sound, thick, thin, bold and sweet. The girl closed the book on her lap, chewing at her bottom lip. Beatriz knew that look – the child brimmed with questions she wanted answered. Cupping her cheek with a hand, she sighed. “Do you think our wedding nights will be like that?” Maria shifted restlessly, and the girls remained silent for a time.

Beatriz suspected their choice of reading and conversation was sparked by recent events at court. From their first meeting, when Margot’s humorous dismay at the court musicians’ overloud welcome had brought the prince to laughter, she gifted to Prince Juan happiness. Those who loved Juan thanked her for it. Si – the marriage of Prince Juan and Princess Margot was a great success. Since their wedding, Prince Juan gazed at his bride as if unable, si, unwilling, to draw his eyes away. They found every excuse to touch and caress the other, disappearing for hours into their private chambers at every possible opportunity.

Sitting crossed-legged, Maria moved deeper into the window-seat. “’Tis a long time before that day comes, for both you and me.”

Catalina sighed, her words rushing out as if in pain. “Amiga, you know the English demand Mother stop delaying and send me to their country now?” Her eyes glowed with unshed tears.

Maria reached out and clasped her hand. “Si, but the queen plays them for more time. Why should this be any different than what happened with Isabel and Juana? The queen will not let you leave until you are at least fifteen.”

Beatriz winced at Catalina’s bitter laugh. “Father says differently. He’s more than willing to see me go.”

Maria released Catalina’s hands. She gathered herself up in the corner of the window-seat, hugging her legs.

Beatriz listened to the birds twittering and chirping outside.
How happy and carefree they sounded.
How many times in her life had their song of joy to morning’s glory lifted her heart and filled it with hope?
What would she do if she were forced into a life of exile? She heaved a long breath and gazed at the girls. Should she remind them that Christ cared for the least of his creatures?

Maria settled her shoulders against the stone. “Has your mother allowed any of her hijas to leave her side before she knew them ready to do so?”

Rubbing her temple, Catalina averted her face to the shadows. “The day comes.”

Beatriz blinked away sudden tears, relieved to see Maria lean towards Catalina and take her hand. “I say again the day is still a long way from today. Listen to the whistles of the larks, my princess, and please, like them, welcome the spring morn. Joy is here for the taking, amiga
.
Worrying about what will befall us in the future won’t change it. Whatever will be will be. And my princess, whatever the future might bring, rose petals will adorn your wedding sheets.” Maria giggled. “But not until your mother allows.”

Catalina held Maria’s hand in both of hers. “You will be there – you will come with me?”

“Do you doubt it?”

Catalina shrugged, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t doubt it. But tell me true, is it what you want, really want?”

As if she made a vow, Maria placed her hand over their linked hands. “My life is with you. Don’t you know that yet?”

“You haven’t answered me. Is it what you want, Maria? You don’t need to leave Castilla...”

Maria leaned towards her and spoke the words of Ruth. “Whithersoever thou shalt go, I will go: and where thou shalt dwell, I also will dwell. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The land that shall receive thee dying, in the same will I die.” Maria rubbed at her eyes. “It is as simple as that. If you go, I go too. I cannot lose my sister. Not now, not ever.”

The light from the window glittered on the tears on Catalina’s thick eyelashes. “If you come to England, you’ll likely marry an Englishman. Have you thought of this?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “An Englishman,” she giggled. “I have thought of this. Can you promise me something?”

“You know if I can, I will.”

“Promise me that I can choose my own husband. Grandee or English lord, I would like to think I could love him.”

Catalina rested her head on her friend’s shoulder and clasped her hand. “I promise, my sister. That’s the least I can do for one who is willing to be my fellow exile.”

Beatriz stared down at her book, and the page blurred. Blinking away her own tears she felt so helpless. All she had was books to help ready her students to leave their home, forever.

My love,

We have a son. He was born three days ago – a healthy, beautiful boy. The wet-nurse cannot believe how lusty he is – I tell her he takes after his father. Josepha looks after us very well. I am so blessed to have her as my friend. That she has agreed to take care of our boy when I return to court – I cannot say how grateful I am.

The queen is happy about this arrangement too. I cannot believe how I feared to tell her of my pregnancy. I thought it would be the end of my position at court. Strangely, like you, my love, she wants to support and help me continue to walk this road that is so different to so many women. Our baby is a miracle. He deserves a woman who will devote herself to him with full joy, not a mother who desires to devote her days to study and teaching. I own it a selfish devotion – but here at court and the university I can give more to the world than to a home. I am what I am, and it is too late to change that. You say you do not wish me to change. For that, I love you. Every day I thank God for you, Francisco. And now there is another Francisco. Josepha will raise him well. She has even promised to do the same if we have more children. I cannot believe my good fortune.

When I left the court three weeks ago,
Queen Isabel was dreading farewelling her eldest daughter, Isabel. As you know, my love, the queen blocked Isabel’s new Portugal marriage for years. She played a hard game of chess against the king in his efforts to pressure her into agreeing to their eldest daughter resuming her position as a pawn to be moved for the sake of power. But the passing of five years has now shut the final door on both mother and daughter, leaving them no more excuses of avoidance…

Once more Isabel retreated to the shell she had built around herself after her husband’s death, ignoring the preparations for her wedding. She even cut her hair short again, as if proclaiming her unwillingness to marry, and her desire to take the veil of a religious order. Soon the season turned and time neared for Isabel to leave her mother’s court for her new life in Portugal. The queen became increasingly desperate to see Isabel show some sign of happiness before her wedding.

“My hija, Manuel has done as you asked,” Queen Isabel said. “He has commanded the Jews to convert or leave his kingdom. He has given them three months to do so.”

Without expression, Isabel lifted her eyes from the altar cloth she was embroidering, glancing at her mother. Despite her extreme slenderness, her beauty at twenty-five seemed far greater than Beatriz’s memory of her at twenty. Isabel’s pale, thin face possessed the delicacy of a sorrowing angel. The young woman looked back at the embroidery. “Then in three months I wed.”

A frown deeply furrowed between the queen’s eyebrows. She watched her daughter add the final threads to a red cross. “You go to be queen, Isabel.”

Isabel’s head cast a shadow over her embroidery, dimming the colours of her intricate work. She sewed on for a few moments in silence.

“Si, Mama, Manuel’s queen.” She pulled too hard at the red thread, puckering the material. Her fingers stilled over the ruined cross. “Do not fear, my mother and queen, I know my duty.”

Queen Isabel winced. Catalina swung from the window-seat, as if to go to her mother. Beatriz grabbed her arm, shaking her head in warning. At Catalina’s cross look, Beatriz stepped into the shadows beside her, whispering close to her ear, “This is between your mother and your sister.”

Catalina drooped back onto the cushions, her eyes fixed on her mother and sister. The queen reached out to her oldest daughter, but Isabel, her head lowered, ignored her mother. Spoiling her embroidery even more, she jabbed and jabbed at the cross, ignoring her mother’s trembling hand. Beatriz almost wept seeing Queen Isabel’s fallen face. For a long moment, the queen’s mouth seemed to struggle for firmness before she turned away from her daughter.

Beatriz recalled Josepha, Maria’s mother, saying to her, “Princess Isabel is the daughter most precious to the queen, perchance because after her birth there was no other living child born to the king and queen for nearly eight years. By the time of the prince’s birth, our queen more than simply doted on Isabel. Isabel became the glory of her mother’s life. Whilst Juan is his mother’s angel, his older sister reigns in her mother’s heart like the Queen of Heaven.”

But Queen Isabel was first a queen. Like Abraham sacrificing Isaac, she sacrificed Isabel’s desires for what she believed right for her kingdom.

···

Summoned by the queen to her private chamber, Beatriz slipped into the shadows of the embrasure. Not far away two physicians knelt before the king and queen. “We advise a time of separation,” one said.

Prince Juan, sitting on a large cushion at his parents’ feet, jerked up to balance on one knee. His eyes fired with anger. The king rested a hand his son’s shoulder, meeting his son’s eyes, shaking his head. His hands clenched at his hips, the prince settled back onto the cushions.

“Let them be,” the king laughed. “They are young. ’Tis only right the passion waxes strong between them. I remember too well how it was when I first wed you, wife.”

Beatriz raised a hand, touching her hot cheek, feeling ill when she saw Queen Isabel’s face. Her eyes glowed with love meant only for one man. For a moment, the ghost of a young woman settled upon her. The ghost still lingered when she beckoned Beatriz. “Good friend, what is your opinion? Are the physicians right to ask this?”

Beatriz gazed at the cowering physicians, and then at Prince Juan. There was no trace of the boy he once was, only a furious young man. She sighed, thinking of the vein of melancholy running deep in this family, and the link between body and mind. “My queen, your son loves his wife. For what my opinion is worth, I say a separation could cause him great unhappiness, and may do more harm than good.”

The queen nodded decisively, turning back to the physicians. “What God joined together let no man rip asunder. There will be no more talk of separation. You’re dismissed.”

Fidgeting as if sitting upon sharp rocks rather than soft cushions, Prince Juan scowled, watching the men leave the room. Utterly mother now, the queen bent low to her son. “Did we do right, my Juan?”

“Mother, those men are fools!” The prince’s blue eyes flashed in his pale face.

She gripped his shoulder. “’Tis true what they say. You’ve lost flesh since your wedding...”

The prince bounded up to his full height. “Mother! There’s nothing wrong! The physicians have brought you worry every day of my life. I am fed milksops and forced to stay abed at the least sign of illness. I am a man, Mother. Pray, as God intended, let me act the man.”

The king grinned with pride. “Listen to our son. Can we doubt this marriage is good for him? Juan is right. ’Tis time for our son to live his own life. How else will he learn to be king?”

The queen’s mouth tightened. When she gazed down on her son, she seemed, to Beatriz, mouthing a silent prayer.

···

The three expected months to Isabel’s wedding stretched to four. Time enough for all to grow to love the Archduchess Margot. That she loved the prince was apparent to everyone. She wanted to please him in every way. Margot was a good wife, a good daughter, a good sister, embracing Prince Juan’s family as her own.

Outside the library, Beatriz listened to Margot’s sweet, melodious voice and the soft notes from a lute:

“The time is troubled, but the time will
clear;
After rain fair weather is
awaited:
After strife and cruel
contention
Peace will arrive, misfortune cease to be
,” sang the prince’s wife.