Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (30 page)

A recent memory flashed into Beatriz’s mind. The king, revealing again his dark side, had rounded on the queen and snarled, “What do you think, Lady, of the situation your archbishop has put us in? What our kings, our forebears, won with so much zeal and blood, we have now lost in an hour because of him.”

“Is this the reason for the rebellion?” Maria asked.

“No...” Beatriz sighed. “Cisneros believes force necessary, if it means gaining converts for God. He imprisoned a Moorish leader, placing him in chains until he yielded to conversion. Before we knew it, all hell’s let loose, and rebels besiege the cardinal’s residence. Cisneros refuses to leave for the safety of the Alhambra. That’s why your father finds himself wielding his sword again, and my husband must again serve the queen in war.”

Maria punched the air. “’Tis not fair – none of it is. Not fair for us, nor the queen. The king is as furious at her as he is at Cisneros.”

Beatriz picked up her paper. “Maria, the king is very jealous of the power the queen has given to her new confessor. She struggles to keep the peace between them.”

Beatriz recalled the queen’s reply to the king: “My lord husband, I beg you, give him the benefit of the doubt and do not listen to rumour until we have all the facts before us and hear what he has to say. Let’s wait until we know the full story before we point fingers of blame.”

Thus, before the end of another week Maria’s father and Beatriz’s husband accompanied the king to put out the fire of this new rebellion.

The sky still streaked with the colours of dawn, Beatriz and Maria stood close together, watching them go. Maria’s father hurried after his lord, King Ferdinand, his long, black hair now streaked by grey. Years of soldiering out in the field bronzed his skin to dark leather, etching deep and permanent lines upon his face, but still he strode to his waiting horse with all the loose-limbed grace of a far younger man.

But Beatriz really had eyes only for one man. From their vantage point, Francisco seemed little changed from the handsome man she had fallen in love with years ago. Wise when she first met him, time only deepened that well while gently changing his physical shell. Her forever merry husband appeared to possess not one worry in the world, taking charge of his men with power, energy and confidence.

Seeing his brown hand on his sword, Beatriz thought of his long, calloused fingers making music and touching her with love. Her heart started to hurt. Blitheness, Francisco’s long held shield at court, she heard him saying again, “I’m an old, weary warhorse who only wants to be put out to pasture.” But there was no other choice for him. The passing of years only made Francisco more devoted to the queen, and more expert with gunpowder. While the queen needed his skills, he would never ask for release from her service.

Francisco took the reins of his horse from one of his waiting men. It was his favourite stallion he rode that day. Later, much later, Beatriz was glad of that. A man going unknowingly and so nobly to his death should have with him at least one thing he loved. Placing his hand on the saddle, he effortlessly bounded onto his horse’s back.

Astride, Francisco half-twisted towards her, a wide smile stretching across his face. The steady wind ruffling his greying hair, he flung out his arm wide in farewell. Beatriz would never forget the pride in his eyes, the pride that seemed to shine brighter than the sun. How could she forget? That day, for the last time, she saw his pride in her.

Beatriz lifted her own arm in farewell. Francisco wheeled his horse. Half-rearing, it neighed, as if welcoming the coming battle, and galloped away, out of sight. For a long while Beatriz stood with Maria until they could watch no longer, and then went back to the royal chambers. Before that week’s end, both of them would have reason to comfort the other.

A word from the mouth is like a stone from a sling.
~ Castillan proverb

T
he king backed Beatriz against the wall, tearing off her widow veils, roughly dragging down her bodice to bare her breasts. His other hand disappeared under her skirts, his arm levering up her gown. A beam of light struck the naked skin of her legs as he elbowed them apart.

“No, please, no. I beg you, my lord... my Lord King, please! I am in mourning.”

The king kissed her hard, all the while loosening the drawstrings of his black leggings, ramming her against the wall with his soldier’s strength. Helpless to fight back, Beatriz put out her hands on either side of her, feeling like one crucified.

“Mourning? I’m sick of mourning, Beatriz. Sick of women who mourn. Sick, do you hear? I want to forget grief and what better way than this. Beg again, my dear, I like women who beg...”

With a violent movement, he pushed her legs apart, wider. He ground into her, one hand squeezing her breast and the other beneath her buttocks. He grunted and grunted to rhythmical movements, while Beatriz crumbled against him, beaten by pain, defeated by life, and turned her face away. She wept. Birds chirped to the sound of his heavy breathing. She wept. The king’s awful animal sounds went on and on, assaulting her almost much as the physical assault. She wept and wept.

How could she let this happen, couldn’t she have done something to stop him? Why now? Why again? She wanted to die.

···

Selecting her book from the pile on the table, Beatriz sat there, leaving it unopened before her. It was still unopened when Catalina turned from her half-filled parchment to resharpen her quill.

“Thinking of your husband?” she asked.

Beatriz shrugged. “I will always think of him.” She rubbed her wet eyes. “My books give me little joy today.”

Her face empty of expression, Catalina gazed at her quill. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Beatriz bent her head. “Is life a jest that God plays on us?”

Catalina bent forward with widening eyes. “Teacher!” she gazed all around, as if wanting to ensure they remained alone. “What has happened for you to say such a thing?”

Unable to look at her, Beatriz put her head in her hands and wept. She felt the warmth of Catalina’s hand, touching her head. “Forgive me,” she sputtered. “I am just raw today.”

Before her marriage, Beatriz had sometimes thought it would be far easier to die by her own hand, like the Roman Lucretia, rather than live with dishonour. Marriage to one of his favoured men had protected her from the king’s lust. In her first years at court, she had believed his threats – that he would take almost everything she valued away from her. She could not bear the thought of not teaching, but then she had found herself in a mire almost impossible to get out of – the more she tried, the deeper she sunk. Only marriage to Francisco had saved her. Now she wondered how she would bear it for it all to start again. She lifted her head and tried to smile at her princess. She had to tell the queen, no matter the consequences. She could not live like this again.

···

“You asked to speak to me, Latina?”

Beatriz rose from her curtsey and lifted her eyes. Seated by the open window, Queen Isabel bent her head over her embroidery, the harsh afternoon sun showed all the lines on her face. She looked so much older than her years. But was that surprising? The last years had been grief after grief.

Beatriz licked at her dry mouth. All her life she had never struggled to begin a conversation. She thought of words as stones – things she used to build, not to destroy. Now? Now she was terrified of what her words could do to her queen.

“Beatriz?” Queen Isabel waved a hand towards a nearby stool. “Pray, sit. I have seen that look too many times over the years to not recognise trouble.”

Sitting on the stool, Beatriz took a deep breath. “Your Majesty – what I have to come to say is painful – not just for me, but for you.”

Queen Isabel blinked. Cocking her head to one side, she narrowed her eyes. “Painful? My friend, pray come to the crux of the matter.”

“You called me friend, my queen. Do you really see me that way?”

“Beatriz – I have never known you to make no sense. Of course we are friends. Good friends. How can we not be, after all these years... you are one person who I thank for stopping me from going mad. Never doubt my friendship – never doubt you can speak to me about anything.”

Beatriz swallowed. It was the opening she wanted. This was the moment when she would discover the truth of their relationship. “Pray, I must talk to you about the king.”

“The king?” Queen Isabel stared at her. “You say the king?”

“Oh, Isabel, I must call you Isabel or I cannot speak of this.” She swallowed again. “Your husband...” She bent forward, her head between her hands. “Oh, God, dear God. I cannot say it...”

Beatriz wiped the tears from her face, aware of the other woman’s silence – a silence that seemed endless. She raised her head, rubbing her wet eyes. Isabel sat very still, her white face averted to the window. At last she turned, breathed deeply through her nose, and looked sadly at Beatriz.

“I think I know what you cannot say. I think I have always known. My husband hates you, my friend. When he hates, he acts on it.” Isabel placed her arm on the armrest of her chair and cradled her chin in her hand. She pursed her lips. “How long?”

“For years – but never often. And never while I was wife to Francisco. But it has started again...”

Isabel lowered her head, placing her embroidery on her lap. “You should have told me, Beatriz. To suffer in silence for so long – my friend, did you not think to come to me?”

“Not when it began. I did not know you then, not as a friend. All I knew were the king’s threats, and his promise to see me removed as tutor to your children and teacher at the university if I refused him. I am no longer a young woman. I believed I was no longer in danger of the king’s unwanted attention. But now, to my great shame, I know otherwise.”

Turning again, Isabel looked at the window. A lush green pomegranate tree grew close by – its branches heavily laden with unpicked fruit, so heavy, the luscious red fruits weighed down the branches. Bright green leaves and bright red fruit against bright blue sky – the tree was a reminder that spring was almost at an end.

Isabel heaved in a long breath and let it out. “The shame is not yours, Beatriz. Do not think that. It is not my place to beg you to forgive him, but we can guess what lies at the root of his actions. He is a man with a powerful wife, a wife far more powerful than him. All the years of our marriage I have tried so hard to not remind him of this. But I am Queen of Castilla. Sometimes, Aragon must remember its place. I make my husband very angry when that happens.

“He knows I love you. By hurting you, he hurts me. This does not excuse him. And in this instance, I am glad I have the power to remind my husband how much he needs my partnership... even if it is but the wealth of Castilla he needs. This is why you are here? You want me to speak to him?”

“Isabel – please. I know I ask of you a great boon, but I cannot remain at court if I am forever avoiding the king.”

“You’ll not leave the court. I say this selfishly. I do not want to lose my friend. I will speak to him tonight and warn him. If he touches you again, do not fear to come and speak to me again. I promise you, my husband will live to regret it.”

···

Another year wore on, a far, far kinder year. The queen kept her promise. She never told Beatriz what she said to the king, but he avoided her from that time. Just when she started to believe they had finally emerged from the years of darkness, Beatriz found Catalina sitting on her clothes chest, weeping. Hands planted on either side of her, she held herself straight, taking quick breaths as if in shock.

Beatriz sat beside her “What is it?” she asked, her heart in her throat. Whatever upset her must be dreadful. No longer a girl who wept easily, Catalina was a maid who knew well the burden of grief.

“He’s dead,” she whispered.

Beatriz’s heart missed a beat. “Who?”
Death had smitten again a man or boy in their close circle – someone to give Catalina cause for sorrow?
Only her father was left for her to grieve over. Beatriz had gone the other way when she saw him, hale and vigorous, coming out of the queen’s chamber less than one hour ago.

Catalina wiped her pale face with the sleeve of her chemise. Several times, she inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Forgive me. The news has come of Warwick’s execution. He tried to escape with the traitor Warbeck – and now they are both dead.” Catalina took another long breath. When she spoke again, Beatriz could almost hear the voice of the queen. “It is for the best. Henry Tudor has done right by his kingdom. There’s now one less cause for rebellion. I shouldn’t let it disturb me.”

Beatriz swallowed, clasping Catalina’s hand. The girl had dreaded this news for years. “It is not your fault,” she said.

Startled, Catalina stared up. Fresh tears fell down her white face. “Not my fault? How can you say that? Our ambassador told King Henry in great secrecy my parents would not let me go to England until Warwick was dead. Latina, they killed him for me.”

Tightening her grip on Catalina’s hand, Beatriz leaned closer. “Listen to me – I say again it is not your fault.”
What to say – what can I say to her to chase the demons away?
She swallowed again. “Terrible things happen in this world...” She shook her head. “Evil things, Catalina. But think, my princess – Warwick was a catalyst for greater evil –” Seeing Catalina about to speak, Beatriz placed a finger on the girl’s lips. “Let me finish. Yes – Warwick was not evil, only a young man whose great tragedy was his birth. But by allowing him life, others would have been tempted to use him for evil – and start another English civil war.”
Oh – the emptiness of my words.
She took a deep breath. “We live in a world where it is wiser to enact a lesser evil to prevent a greater. Dear God, Catalina –” Beatriz cradled the side of her head. “It is not your fault, but the world we live in. All we can do is strive to change the world by our own lives, and to remember we never come to the Kingdom of Heaven but by troubles.”

···

Too full of thoughts to desire company, once again Beatriz sat alone in the courtyard where, years ago, she had spoken to Admiral Columbus. Then, as now, early morning sunlight hazed forth the verdancy of spring and countless butterflies dappled her with their fluttering shadows as they danced in mid-air. She gazed at the sky. Blue and cloudless, it mattered little when the departure of her princess and Maria loomed like storm clouds on the horizon of her life. Thinking about all she would soon lose, and all she had already lost, Beatriz thanked God for the intertwining of good with bad. The constant flare of Moorish rebellion close to Granada ensured the king and queen remained at the Alhambra beyond just one summer season. Content to stay at their favourite royal place of all, they still dwelled there when time approached for Catalina to start her long journey overland to the ships that would take her to England.

Days kept them busy with making and packing, ensuring the dowry chests the princess took with her included everything she needed to begin a new life in a new land. And, likewise, her attendants, those the queen chose to accompany her daughter, prepared for their new lives, too.

These busy days of preparation brought Maria’s mother to court for a rare visit. Not yet reached the age of thirty-six, once constant childbearing softened and rounded her form. Now a year and more had passed since her husband’s death. Sorrow left her thinner whilst not lessening her attractiveness. The last months had cried rumour of another grandee wooing her, desiring not only the great wealth she inherited after her mother’s death, but also her mature beauty and proven fecundity. She soon sent her suitors away. Josepha refused to consider another marriage. In truth, while no other man ever threatened her husband’s place in her heart, nine hard childbirths, and one that of twins, would leave few women lusting for more.

Even so, Josepha was lonely, a palpable loneliness that Beatriz knew too well.

When Maria told her mother she wished she could find some other man to love, Josepha had smiled at her daughter. “My Maria,” she answered. “There’s no reason for you to feel pity for me. Few in life experience the love I knew with your father. Hija, ’tis a love bridging between life and death, me on one side and your father on the other. How could I marry again feeling like that? I’m content to wait for the sake of our children, knowing when I cross that bridge, I return to his side, this time forever. I know your father waits for me.”

Her way of dealing with his loss meant leaving herself with not one idle moment from dawn to dusk. Maria’s twin brothers, now seven, as well as Beatriz’s growing son, came more and more under her older brother’s guidance, and her two older sisters were married to well-placed grandees. Maria’s baby brother, the child her mother bore four months after her father’s death, seemed to live with her two sisters and their children as much as he lived with his mother.

Si, Josepha was a grandmother now, but like her own mother before her she refused to just sit and sew or weave by the fire. Be that as it may, Maria’s mother still sewed and weaved. In the school-room, Josepha threw over her daughter’s shoulders a deep red woollen mantle.

“Red suits you.” She drew it around Maria, pulling the hood over her head and straightening its folds. “I dyed it until I got the colour right. Others wanted to help me with it, but I refused. Every stitch is from my own needle. It will last you many years.”

Gazing wordlessly at her mother, Maria gathered its thick, soft folds against her chest. From another full saddlebag, Josepha took out a tied canvas bag. “Take these too.”

Standing next to them, Beatriz breathed in the smell of earth and glanced inside the bag at the small brown bulbs. There were too many to count.

“What are they?” Maria asked.

“Saffron. Look after them and keep them safe from frost. That’s certain to kill them and prevent them flowering. They take a lot out of the earth when they grow. Take the bulbs out every year or so after they have done with flowering, then feed the earth before you plant the bulbs back again. Do this and they will multiply and give you much cause for pleasure. You know their many uses?”