Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (31 page)

Holding the precious bag to her chest, Maria beamed. “Gracia, Mama, si. I shall find a place in England to plant them.” The girl glanced at the bundles already piled high on the bed – amongst them apricot and peach kernels and apple seeds from her mother’s best trees. Maria bit her lower lip. “As I will do with the other seeds from home.”

Josepha fixed her gaze on her daughter. “When you’re married, I’ll send you more. I will also send you young saplings from our orchards by ship.”

Maria offered her mother a trembling smile. “Mama, I am grateful.” She touched her mother’s hand.

Beatriz thought Josepha somehow diminished. Beside her towering husband, her friend’s huge spirit more than made up for her tiny size. Somehow, Beatriz felt as if Josepha’s inner core of strength had passed from her to her daughter, like the mantle she had placed over her shoulders. Beatriz heaved a deep sigh.

“But it might be best to send them for my princess’s wedding, not mine. Who knows when I will marry,” Maria said.

Alarmed, Josepha blinked. “The princess will find you a good husband.”

Turning to her mother’s distress, Maria clasped her hand. “Si, Mama.”

Beatriz studied the girl. Maria was likely wise to keep silent about Catalina’s promise to let her first seek out her own. The knowledge would worry her mother.

Gazing at Josepha in her widow’s weeds, Beatriz remembered her in her husband’s arms. Like her and Francisco, Josepha and Martin’s love blazed dazzling white-gold like a well-stacked fire. She did not blame Maria for wanting the same as her parents, for wanting abiding love and passion, a true marriage, not a sham. Josepha’s eyes drowned in tears, running down her aging cheeks. Beatriz touched her loosening cheek.
Si.
Like
mine.

Josepha cradled Maria’s face between her hands. “Promise to write?” Her voice choked. “If you send your letters home with the princess’s letters, the queen will ensure I get them.”

Beatriz thought she could be strong, now watching her friend weep showed this only make-believe. A tidal wave swelled within her, and she rubbed at her wet eyes.

“Mama mine, I vow to you, I shall write. As many letters as I am able.” Maria wrapped her arms around her mother and kissed her. The girl seemed to be breathing in her mother’s smell. “Mama, if the letters come slowly, please remember I will pray to God every day of my life to keep you and my brothers and sisters safe.”

Josepha smiled, reaching to give Maria her kiss and blessing. The girl crumbled in her mother’s arms and wept, holding her tight.

“Dear one, I am here. I am here. Always,” Josepha comforted.

Beatriz rubbed at her eyes. Soon Maria would never hear again those words from her mother’s lips.

···

Beatriz witnessed another farewell, this time in the royal baths at the Alhambra. Both now finished bathing and in their dry shifts, Queen Isabel stood behind her seated daughter and brushed Catalina’s hair before a body-length mirror propped against the tiled wall. Beatriz leaned back against the marble bath, going deeper in the hot water. The white shift she wore billowed. She lifted a hand and studied her wet, water-shrivelled fingers. She wondered if she should get out of the baths too, but it was so pleasant to just be at rest and linger in the heated water. Overhead, light beamed down from the star-shaped skylights of the cupola and created a constellation of twinkling stars around her in the water. She raised her head when she heard the queen say, “Uno Piqueño...”

Catalina glanced at her mother, then lowered her gaze to her lap. Queen Isabel straightened her stance, not missing one brush stroke.

“I shall write to you every moment I can. My letters to you will make you feel you are with me and never, ever lonely for my love. I tell you true, love makes of distance nothing. Nothing, I tell you.” The queen swallowed, shaking her head. She sniffed. “Catalina, I am a good judge of character, si?”

Catalina lifted her grey/blue eyes again, glistening bright in candlelight. The mirror reflected her mother’s sorrowful smile. From her earliest years, Queen Isabel told Catalina her English great-grandmother and namesake possessed such eyes. Beatriz inwardly shrugged. Catalina of Lancaster was the daughter of John of Gaunt – also the ancestor of Henry VII of England. Queen Isabel regarded the English king as kin, but she was a crowned queen, the daughter of a crowned king. King Henry’s background was like a shabby, half-made blanket compared to the gold-cloth of her queen’s.

Catalina chewed her upper lip and cleared her throat. “Si, Mama.”

“Uno Piqueño, you know letters have gone from me to Elizabeth of York since her firstborn wore swaddling cloths. The queen is a good, wise woman and devoted to her children. She will care for you as one of her own. Always listen, Catalina, to her. Her husband, the king... Hija, I am not as certain of him.”

The chamber became so quiet Beatriz counted the strokes of the brush, so many it transmuted Catalina’s hair into what seemed liquid gold. The queen’s eyes fell upon her daughter’s reflection.

“Hija, I believe King Henry to be like most men – desiring his women to make him believe himself better than other men. I have not enjoyed the marriage negotiations he has forced on us. Our arguments over your dowry have made me feel like a shopkeeper. But to be fair to him, he is a man who has learnt the hard way to value gold. Never forget he is a king not long secure in his crown.”

Catalina blinked. “But he has been England’s king for sixteen years.”

The queen paused, tightening her lips. She lost the vibrancy sometimes making her seem ageless. “Si. More than your whole lifetime. I understand it seems a long time to you.” She bent her head, and began brushing again. “But sixteen years is nothing for a king such as Henry Tudor... and an English king...”

Her hands stilled. “There are those in England with blood more deserving of England’s crown. Henry won his throne by killing in battle England’s last king. In truth, King Henry, descended from bastard, albeit royal blood, only became king through the ancient right of conquest.” The queen glanced and smiled at Beatriz. “I know your teacher has told you this.”

Catalina’s eyes narrowed, a line puckering deep between her eyebrows. The queen rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Your father and I have watched the English king closely. Never would we send you to marry his son if, for one moment, we harboured any doubts of Henry Tudor’s capability to stay upon his country’s throne. Just know my assurance, Uno Piqueño, all you need do is enjoy your wedding day and be Prince Arthur’s good wife and consort.”

Placing the brush aside, the queen lifted Catalina’s thick hair, now gleaming with red-gold lights, away from her neck. The long minutes of brushing had chased away most of its natural wave. Queen Isabel took up a tendril, curling it around a swollen finger. She sighed, patting the curl back in place, smoothing the brushed hair behind her daughter’s ear. The flowing hair fell like a silken, golden-lit mantle down Catalina’s back, reaching beyond the seat of the stool.

Fingertips touching the sides of her daughter’s head, the queen spoke again. “As a girl my hair too was thus. You are my true daughter. My heart knew this from the first moment I held you after your birth.” The queen inhaled a deep breath. “All last night I found myself thinking of that time at Alcala de Henares, you in my arms, your sisters and brother by my bed. You made Juan annoyed, child, by being another sister, but Isabel took you from me and fussed over you like she was your mother. At fifteen she wanted to be a wife and mother very much.” She heaved another sigh. “Your birth was such a happy time – all my children close to me, the blessing of a new hija.”

The queen lifted Catalina’s chin. “You are strong, strong and brave and intelligent. There’s a great queen in you, a true lioness. How you’ll surprise men with your roar. You’ll make them quake, just as I do. How could you not, my hija, born in the middle of a Holy War? Catalina, you make me proud. Every day of your life you’ve made me proud. The English do not know yet what I send to them, but they soon will. One of my greatest, and most precious jewels.” Queen Isabel rested her hands on Catalina’s shoulders. She gazed with her daughter into the mirror– a picture of hopeful youth and sorrowing maturity shining together in the amber glow of candlelight.

Queen Isabel bit her lower lip, leaving behind the mark of teeth. When next she spoke, her deep voice trembled. “Always, always remember this: drink nothing without first seeing it tasted by someone else; sign nothing without reading it thoroughly. Be careful where you give your trust.” She swallowed, gazing at Beatriz. “Latina would give her life for me, and my heart tells me this is also true of our Maria for you. But other than Maria... Hija, I know you like and trust Geraldini, who I send with you as your confessor. He will also keep you company in your studies. But even with confessors you must be very careful. Only trust the good God.”

The queen gently caressed Catalina’s cheek, heaving a deep sigh. “Hija, always remember the mask we wear when the doors open from our private chambers to the court. That’s your armour behind which you hide your heart. Reveal that, and you give a weapon into the hands of your enemies. You will have those, and many. Our place in the world makes it so. But you’re my child. You’ll know what to do. I have won countless enemies to me, and do not doubt you can too.”

The queen’s arms slipped around Catalina’s neck, her chin resting on her head. Beatriz huddled deeper into the shadows of the pool, her presence forgotten, feeling like an intruder.

“Next week, you shall leave us. Next week, my letters to you shall begin. Every free moment I shall write to you. I vow this as the mother who loves you.”

“I promise too, Mama.” Catalina’s eyes glowed brighter, brimming with liquid gold.

The queen gently shook her. “Uno Piqueño, you promised me. You are a princess and one day will be queen. There have been enough tears in recent years... Your marriage gives us reason to rejoice.”

Catalina blinked, nodding.

Sitting far from them, Beatriz remembered Catalina’s daily prayers. She so wished to postpone this departure for the sake of her ailing mother.

The queen reached for her cloak. From inside its deep, hidden pocket, she pulled out a chain with a heavy gold cross. “Take this with you.”

Catalina stared. “Mama! Your fragment of the true cross?”

Queen Isabel smiled, passing the golden chain over her daughter’s head. “I always planned to give this to you. I have another gift too.” Again she reached into the pocket, drawing out a small gold book. “I had this made for you, Uno Piqueño – a private parting gift from me to you.”

Catalina took the book from her mother. She turned the pages. Beatriz saw her swallow hard, gazing with tear-bright eyes at her mother. “Gracia. ’Tis beautiful, Mama.”

“I agree, child. I wanted you to have an hour book like the Flemish one I treasure. The painter did well with it. This annunciation scene – he made our good Virgin look somewhat like you, si?”

With a wry smile Catalina gazed down at the book. “She’s very pretty.”

The queen laughed a little. “You’re just as pretty. When I saw the red-gold hair and grey eyes of this young Madonna, I realised what had happened. The painter, knowing it was for you, looked to you for his inspiration. He painted it with love, Catalina. Uno Piqueño, so many love you. Mark my words – the English will love you, too.”

···

A week later, at dawn, Beatriz stood with Catalina and Maria on the terraced roof of the Tower of Comares. Rivulets of white gold streamed through feathery clouds, the deluge of light from a rising sun turning the snowy top of Sierra Nevanda aflame, continuing to the near fortress hill. On the last morning with her girls at the Alhambra, the scent of oranges and pomegranates, and a silver morning wove together a vivid design of poignant farewell.

Morning light struck the paved, narrow, winding streets and buildings of Granada, dawn’s light gilding red stone gold. Gardens hugged the stone walls of the city, forming a lush, green belt, spreading out wide to the near valley of the Darro. The morning breeze wafted a heady perfume of summer flowers from the gardens. In the valley, crops of grains began to yellow, ripening for the harvest. The same breezes caressing their bare skin on the tower’s roof also played a gentle game of back, forth, and back again through the tops of the long green stalks. Stretched out as far as their feasting eyes could see, fruit orchards and mulberry trees rendered a canvas of vivid colour. Festooning vines climbed as if from tree to tree, their yet unripe grapes hanging in plump, glistening clusters.

Beatriz inhaled a deep breath. The aroma of nearby orange groves invigorated and soaked into her soul. She straightened her shoulders, almost feeling the presence of her ancestor Samuel Ibn Nagrela. Unable to take her eyes away from the view, she wondered if he had once stood here, just like the three of them, to greet a new day. Perhaps this was the place that had inspired him to write:

Hurry and give me drink,
Before the rise of dawn,
Of spice wine and juice of pomegranate,
In a cup held by the perfumed hand of a young maid,
Who will sing to me of many things
Both life giving and death dealing.

As if in answer to her thoughts, Catalina’s voice returned Beatriz to the waking city. “Of all the places I’ve lived, I love here the best. ’Tis my heart’s true home.”

Beatriz squeezed her hand. “All will be well.”

“I pray to God that it will be so.” She gazed towards the palace. “How will my mother be with the last of us gone?”

Letting go of her hand, Beatriz listened to the bells calling to morning mass. Maria folded her arms on the top of the wall, glancing at the tiles near their feet. Sun rays spilled through the delicate stonework etching its lace design upon the ground.

Turning to Catalina, Maria sighed. “God will give the queen strength, as He does for us all, my prima hermana.”

Catalina moved closer to her friend. “All her strength comes from God. Her faith is all the certainty she has left now.” She lifted her chin, eyes welling with sorrow. “I don’t want to leave her, not while she needs me.”