Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (6 page)

Every man is a fool in some man’s
opinion
~ Castilian proverb

B
eatriz saw him again and again during the weeks leading up to Princess Isabel’s wedding. He stood alone in shadows, away from sunlight, away from the hum and bustle of court, his eyes full of dreams.
Just like a mystic,
she thought. A mystic burning bright with the fire of a zealot.

Noticing Beatriz’s curious eyes on him again, Catalina whispered. “’Tis the Italian, Columbus. Father calls him the Jew.” Beatriz looked aside at Catalina and lifted an eyebrow. Catalina answered with an embarrassed shrug. King Ferdinand made no effort to hide his dislike of Jews.

With so many Jews in powerful positions in his wife’s court, Beatriz knew Catalina often felt confused about the different standpoints taken by her parents. Beatriz hoped to guide the girl – hoped to help open her eyes so she appreciated people for their hearts and souls, rather than view the world through unnecessary prejudice. God knew she received enough of that herself as a woman scholar navigating a world mapped out by men. “He wants my parents to pay for ships and men. The king, my lord father, says the man is a charlatan and wastes my mother’s precious time with some foolhardy plan to discover a sea way to India and the land of the grand khan.”

Maria gazed blankly at Catalina.

“Do you know what grand khan means?” Beatriz asked.

Frowning, Maria gave it quick thought and offered an answer. “King of kings?”

Beatriz smiled. The children were listening to her lessons.

“Si,” Catalina said. “Mother told me that the khan sent word to the pope for men of God to come to him. None have because the journey is too full of danger. Columbus believes he can discover a way to make it not so.”

“I think the king is right. Seafaring ships disappear over the ends of the world,” Maria said earnestly.

Catalina laughed. “That’s only a fable. Don’t you remember Latina telling us otherwise?” she reminded her friend, with another glance in Columbus’s direction. “Geraldini and Santángel both have my lady mother’s ear. My mother likes the Italian. She believes God has sent him to her. He will get his ships.”

Catalina pulled Maria back into movement. One more time, Beatriz gazed over her shoulder. Seemingly a true Italian – even if a Jew – with heavy, hooded eyes, large, hooked nose, sensual lips, and strong chin, the man reminded her of a bust found in their present alcázar, a bust of a long ago Roman Caesar. Columbus took no notice of two small girls and their woman tutor padding softly in the long, narrow corridor, away from the shadows and into the light of a new day. Even Catalina, a daughter of the royal house, aroused none of his attention.

Behind the infanta Juana, a frowning Dońa Teresa Manrigue gestured to them to quicken their pace. Beatriz ceased wondering about this stranger, forced to face the moment at hand. With her trailing skirts slung over an arm, she rushed with the small girls to join the queen and her other children to attend yet another festivity celebrating Isabel’s proxy marriage to the Prince of Portugal. Two more of the queen’s women followed a few steps behind.

Beatriz hurried faster than usual, but for far different reasons. If she didn’t hurry, concentrating on walking in her long gown with grace, she might succumb to her desire to run in the opposite direction. She had no wish to watch another bullfight.

Beatriz hated bulls. She had always hated them. An immense, overpowering primeval fear made it so, a fear surging up within her whenever the inescapable smell of a bull came near. Seeing them, smelling them, even from a safe distance, swamped her in a violent tide of terror. Her heart beating hard and furious against her chest, Beatriz felt sick and dizzy. It took the clasp of Maria and Catalina’s hands to stop her from dashing away from the entrance of the arena. Already, the heady, ripe smell of beast walled her in its imprisonment.

Looking down at their white, pinched faces, it seemed the girls also shared her fear. And not only the girls. The queen also hated bullfights. Time after time she sat there with a white, drained face, empty of expression. Her head set against the high back of her chair, she kept her eyes fixed, watching the bull rage and fight for its life against the matador.

Just days ago Maria had experienced her first bullfight. The child wept – and the queen had noticed. Later, when Beatriz accompanied Catalina and Maria to the queen’s private chambers, Queen Isabel took Maria aside, crouching down to speak to her in the embrasure of her huge window.

“I detest bullfights.” She lifted Maria’s chin, making the child look straight into her eyes. “Can I trust you with my secret of how I pretend otherwise?”

Maria nodded and attempted a smile.

Queen Isabel rested her hand on Maria’s shoulder. “You are your mother’s good hija, si?”

Maria nodded again and the queen laughed. Cocking her head to one side, she peered out the window before turning back to Maria. “I must appear brave before my people, small cousin, but – I tell you in truth – only the stupid and those lacking any foresight do not fear. Little cousin, you too descended from kings, please believe the truth of my words. When we pretend bravery the pretence often becomes real. Very real. If we face fear we often find we turn a lion into a cat. A cat is easily dealt with, si?” Queen Isabel smiled when Maria nodded. “My small kin-child, promise me you’ll pretend to be brave until mantled by true bravery.”

Remembering now Maria making that promise, Beatriz steadied her gaze upon the queen’s thickened fingers, drumming on the arm of her seat. The jewels in her rings winked in the sunlight. Overheated in her gown, Beatriz attempted to push down the fear and horror swirling in her stomach, making her feel ill again.

Loud laughter erupted from the king’s stall. His vulpine face full of eagerness for the kill, King Ferdinand leaned forward in his chair and joked with the grandees standing near him. Beatriz lowered her head, praying he would not notice her. The king always took great delight in the battle of life and death waged before their eyes. A vivid, magnetic and pragmatic man amongst men, he seemed to live for such moments.

Beatriz hooded her eyes against witnessing the men’s enjoyment, but she lifted her head when she heard the excited laughter of Prince Ahmed and Prince Juan. Watching Prince Juan copy his father depressed her. A poet and scholar, Juan was a youth who never revelled in bloodshed. His behaviour today disturbed her. Why, she asked herself, must he assume the mask that belonged to men like his father? Could he not show the public the sensitive, gentle boy he really was?

Still and silent, the queen and her daughters sat with rod-straight backs against their chairs. Placed behind Catalina, Beatriz kept her hands locked together in her lap and steadied her breathing. She thought of the morning song of birds, new books she wanted to read, tomorrow’s lessons – anything and everything rather than to return her eyes to a bleeding animal full of justified fury, no longer seduced by the matador’s dance, but fighting for its life. Hearing the king laugh again, Beatriz recalled the words of Aristotle:
Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of
all.

The bull gave a tortured bellow. Beatriz looked down to see the matador pull his short spear out of the bull’s back. She hated bulls? Watching the animal’s pain-glazed eyes roll back in its distress it was no longer hate she felt but great pity.

Side-stepping with a dancer’s grace, the matador again speared the bull deep into its shoulder. The open wound gushed an outpouring of blood, a red rivulet against the bull’s black skin. The crowd roared its approval and so did the king. In answer, the matador flourished a half-turn to the royal stand. A foolish, costly mistake. The bull lowered its head and charged.

Beatriz closed her eyes. She heard Catalina gasp and Juana scream, a scream penetrating the silence in the royal stands.

Below them the bull gored the matador to death. Sickened, faint, Beatriz swallowed back vomit. Hot urine splashed down her thighs. Her heart in her throat, the matador’s terrible screams cut through her. Twisting, she looked behind her, seeking an easy way of escape through the queen’s crowd of women. She just wanted to grab Catalina and Maria, and run away from this living nightmare, but obedience to the queen forbade it.

Holding long spears, twelve men or more rushed into the arena. From a safe distance, they aimed and threw their spears. The bull, focused on its revenge, stayed oblivious to the arching spears until too late. One last furious bellow sounded below. The beast buckled, collapsing on the dying matador.

Catalina turned and looked at Beatriz with terrified eyes. The child had grabbed the back of her seat, holding it so tight her knuckles became white. Hysterical, Juana sobbed and sobbed. Beside her, a very pale Isabel took her arm, and shook. She whispered, “Quieten yourself, I beg you. Father watches.”

Juana hiccupped, her tears stopping, as if knifed at their very source. Ducking her head, Beatriz looked aside at the king. Black fury darkened his already dark skin to a frightening guise. Reminding Beatriz of the bull just minutes before its death, his gaze snapped upon the queen’s as if a bolt of lightning. Without warning he stood, his anger making him seem tall. His men followed suit. The king turned his back on his daughters and the queen, striding fast from the stands. Queen Isabel sighed, stirring in her seat, her face stern and pale. “Let’s follow.”

Stiff brocade gowns rustled in a chorus, skirts swept the ground. With their women helping to hold up their trailing gowns, the queen and infantas carefully manoeuvred through the stands. High and low, the multitude watched the royal family’s every move as they left the arena.

After entering her chambers, the queen commanded the majority of her attendants to stay in the outer chamber. Only those closest to the royal family were admitted to her private bedchamber.

Turning on her heel, the queen faced her second daughter with worry and frustration.

Juana fell to her knees. In a hoarse voice, she pleaded, “Mama, I beg you, forgive me.”

Wordlessly, the queen shook her head. Her eyes huge, Juana visibly shuddered. Isabel rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder and stood protectively beside her. Swallowing hard, Isabel’s gaze veered to her mother. Her eyes pleaded, begged.

Looking at her two daughters, the queen’s shoulders slumped, her face softening. “Hija, be warned. Your lord father will surely take you to task about your behaviour today.”

Juana’s mouth trembled. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she said.

Shaking her head again, the queen sighed. “I hate the blood of the bullfights too, Juana, but they belong to our land just as surely as we do. Even Catalina did not cry out like you, and you are five years the older. You must never show fear, not now, not ever, my daughter. Showing fear renders you powerless.” Queen Isabel swallowed. “You gave your lord father and I much reason for shame today, my Juana.”

Juana crumpled against her sister. Isabel, putting her arm around her, looked at her mother and spoke. “Mama, can you not please talk to Father and crave his forgiveness for my sister. It was a terrible thing that happened today. Surely he can understand the reason for my sister’s great distress.”

Queen Isabel’s eyes narrowed. Lifting her chin, she gazed at Juana, but spoke as if she wasn’t there. “Your sister shamed us. Shamed our family in front of the whole court and our people.” Rubbing the side of her face, she took a deep breath. “Si, I will speak to him, but if he calls for Juana to come to him, she must go.”

“Oh, please, no.” Juana sobbed. Anguished, she gazed beseechingly at her mother.

Her arm still around her ten-year-old sister, Isabel tried again. “Mother, we celebrate my coming wedding...” Isabel’s eyes filled with tears. “I cannot be happy if my sister is punished. Pray, Mama, could you not tell Father that?”

Queen Isabel ran her thumb’s knuckle across her forehead and between her eyebrows, her teeth worrying at her upper lip. Forgotten, the trail of her gown dragged on the floor as she paced to the window. Flinging open the shutters she leaned on the stone windowsill. The harsh sunlight fell on her face, aging her.

“Dear God, dear God, give me strength,” she muttered, turning back to her daughters. “What if I ask your father to let me punish you instead, Juana?”

Juana dropped to her knees again. She knotted her hands before her, looking up like a reprieved criminal. “Oh, thank you, Mama.” She grabbed her mother’s dress, kissing its dusty hem.

Her eyes narrowing with sudden pain, the queen pursed her lips. “My hija, I cannot promise this will suffice with your father.” She reached down, then drew back her hand to clench it for a moment. With a deep breath, she touched Juana’s bent head. “Child, get up now. I will do my best.”

···

Juana’s great fear did not surprise Beatriz. When the King of Aragon deemed his children guilty of wrongdoing, he punished them sorely. If he witnessed it, that alone ensured his quick anger and chastisement. But for Juana, the king always reserved a crueller punishment. Many times in childhood he whipped her bare buttocks with a rope and ordered her locked alone in a chamber, often for a day and night. She saw no one but a silent servant who brought her food. Sometimes a whole week passed before Juana was allowed to resume her place with her sisters. Beatriz heard Juana often crying in the night when her father was at court. The king seemed to possess little love for Juana. He gave more kindness and love to his bastards – even to hunting dogs he sometimes kicked in passing – than to his second eldest daughter. He suffered the infanta’s presence with barely hidden contempt.

Many of the court paid Juana little attention because of this. None desired or wished to bring the king’s disfavour upon themselves. Each time he resumed his place by his wife’s side, the king eroded Juana’s confidence, making her fear him more with every new and greater punishment.

Time after time he dismantled the queen’s careful care of their most sensitive daughter. The king made the intelligent Juana feel stupid, worthless, defenceless – a shame to the royal houses of Aragon and Castilla.