Reign of Madness

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cullen, Lynn.
Reign of madness / Lynn Cullen.
p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-52935-5

1. Juana, la Loca, Queen of Castile, 1479–1555—Fiction. 2. Philip I, King of Castile, 1478–1506—Fiction. 3. Queens—Spain—Castile—Fiction. 4. Castile (Spain)—Kings and rulers—Fiction. 5. Spain—History—Ferdinand and Isabella, 1479–1516—Fiction. 6. Spain—History—Charles I, 1516–1556—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.U2955R

813’.54—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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For my daughters, Lauren, Megan, and Alison

The Family of P
HILIPPE
the H
ANDSOME

The Family of J
UANA
of C
ASTILE

Prologue

Possibly Juana of Castile

2 May anno Domini 1543

TORDESILLAS, SPAIN

A
birdcage might be gilded, but it is still a cage. And so it is
A
said of the palace at Tordesillas. For all its lovely balconies overlooking the churning waters of the Duero, its sun-warmed tile roofs, its royal pennants of scarlet and gold snapping merrily in the breeze, the townsfolk know the true purpose of the building. This is why farmers cross themselves as they pass before it with their wagonloads of wheat. Why the sisters of the convent of Santa Clara keep their eyes averted when in its vicinity. Why boys throw stones at its empty windows before they are rushed off by their scolding tutors. People are afraid of the place, as if the wrong that has been inflicted on its inhabitant might be catching.

Now its stone walls ring with the sound of trumpets, followed by the determined tap of fine kid shoes against tile. A page shouts, “His Majesty Don Felipe!” although everyone in the palace and in the windswept Castilian town over which it towers knows the identity of the slight young man leading the group of nobles dressed in velvet doublets and fur-trimmed robes. The young man—a youth, truly, new to the blond beard sprouting from his prominent chin—forges deeper into the palace. He strides past empty chambers that smell of the river, then through the arcade, which is shuttered though it is a mild day in early May, and past a chapel with a single votive flickering wanly in the dark. He comes at last to a door and waits, twitching his jaw, a surprisingly heavy feature in his otherwise graceful face. A German guard, steel armor clinking, works the lock then throws open the bolt.

“His Majesty Don Felipe, Prince of Spain, Naples, Milan, Sicily, the Netherlands, and the Indies!” cries the page.

A woman whose bloom has long since faded looks up from the book she holds to the light of the only window of the chamber. She is dressed in the plain coarse gray of the Poor Clares. A wooden rosary hangs from her waist. Only the delicate Flemish linen of the coif beneath her thick veil—too fine for a simple Poor Clare—hints that she might not be a sister of that humble religious order.

The young man hesitates for a moment, working his considerable jaw, then strides before her and falls to his knees. “My Lady Grandmother, I wish to kiss your hands.”

She hides her hands, one still clutching the small leather-bound book, in the folds of her rough skirt. “No.”

The youth sits back on his heels as if snapped at by a dog he had judged friendly. The nobles behind him cease their jostling for position and exchange glances.

The lines etched around the woman’s mouth speak of sorrow, aging her beyond her sixty-three years, but now, when she smiles with affection, it is possible to imagine how beautiful she once was. Indeed, in spite of her graying skin and brows, and having borne six children, all of them kings, queens, or emperors, in her mind she is still a young maiden. “Stand up, Felipe.”

He hesitates.

She holds out her arms. “Come.”

After they embrace, he says, “I have come to ask permission to marry.”

Her smile fades. “My ‘permission’?” She sighs. “Who?”

He pauses. Behind him, a cardinal coughs into his scarlet sleeve.

“My cousin, Maria Manuela of Portugal.”

“Catalina’s child? My own daughter Catalina’s child? Catalina has not written me about it. No one has. But you would think at least Catalina . . .” She stops, then takes a breath. “When is the wedding?”

“As soon as you allow it.”

She exhales. “When, Felipe.”

He lowers his eyes. “November.”

“Thank you.” Seeing his guilty look, she asks quietly, “Is she beautiful?”

His fool, a gangling fellow with eyes set impossibly close together and a head furred with melon-colored hair, jogs forward and knocks the prince with his elbow. “Is she beautiful?
¡Que bonita!
Who would not want to eat her peaches?”

“Manuelito,” Felipe says, “you’ve not seen her.”

The fool slides forth a petulant bottom lip. “I have seen her picture.”

Felipe glances at the walls, bare save for a painting of the Virgin Mary that is black with age. He reddens. He has not thought to bring a portrait.

The woman smiles gently. “You will find yourself more foolish than a fool if she does not seem beautiful to you once you have seen her.”

Felipe’s short laugh is one of sheepish gratitude. “Surely I will admire my cousin,” he says lightly. “She has my same blood.”

“Yes,” says the woman. “She has my blood, too. Though that might not be the best recommendation.”

Felipe reddens again. The woman sighs. She did not mean to embarrass him. This is what comes from being alone too much, she thinks to herself. I no longer know how to behave.

“She should count herself lucky to be of your line,” Felipe says.

The boy has her delicate skin and its propensity to give away emotions, the woman thinks. He is a poor liar, just like her. Interesting, how lineage will tell, no matter how much you wish that it would not. Looking at this boy, she can see her husband’s heavy jaw and swollen lips, though on Philippe they were considered quite attractive, if you measured by the number of ladies who fell across his bed. There are women who, after gaining the affection of such a handsome man, must possess him completely or go mad. Philippe never seemed to worry about this.

He should have.

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