Reign of Madness (29 page)

Hendrik grinned. “I wanted to remind you of your lands, where many worlds come to pay honor at your court.”

I squeezed Hendrik’s hand. “Thank you.”

“If you were really going to do something for us, why didn’t you get us some real natives? By all accounts, the she-Indios are quite the tigers—in a good way—once you pin them down.”

I shifted away from Philippe. All his natural sweetness evaporated when he drank. “The Indios are people, Monseigneur, and as such are Mother’s subjects. She specifically has granted them her love and protection.”

“Your mother,” he grumbled.

“There are times when I see her great wisdom.” I looked at him in wonder. “How long it has taken me to say that.”

Now the trumpets announced a call to dance. The players of Hendrik’s surprise exhibition marched out of the hall with their beasts. Soon I was with the other dancers, holding Philippe’s hand while performing the lively leaps of a saltarello, wishing the evening would end so that I could go to bed. I would be rising early—I had promised my children that I would take them for a walk along the river in the morning.

Philippe jerked me toward him. He gazed at me as I righted myself from my stumble. “Do you love me, Puss?”

“You’re drunk.”

He stopped dancing. “I asked you, do you love me?”

The other dancers exchanged uneasy glances.

“Yes, of course I do.” I looked away, upset that others should see him like this.

A gleam caught my eye. I followed it to the Viscountess, where a great egg-shaped pearl had slipped from beneath her bodice and now rested on her breast.

As awkwardly as a man underwater, Philippe followed my line of vision. He squinted, then frowned, then looked at me. “It means nothing,” he said.

I pulled out of his grasp.

“She is the children’s governess!” he called after me as I strode across the floor. “I rewarded her. What’s wrong with that?”

I kept walking.

There was a disturbance behind me, then a woman’s gasp. I heard the plodding of Philippe’s uneven steps as he strove to catch up with me.

He thumped my shoulder. “Here.”

When I turned, he thrust the pearl before me on his palm. “You want it. You keep it. It doesn’t matter to me.”

I gazed into his face, beautiful even when distorted with drink. “Dear Philippe, that is precisely the problem.” I turned to go.

“What does that mean?” he cried. “What do you mean?”

As I strode by, my skirts brushed against the tables emptied of all but those nobles who were too infirm or aged to dance. Lesser court officials stood against the walls, gaping.

“Stop!” Philippe ordered. “You cannot leave until I’ve dismissed you!”

A dog gnawing on a bone jumped out of my way.

“She’s not stopping!” Philippe sputtered in amazed fury. “Do you not hear me? I command you to stop!”

I pushed through the doors, leaving the roar of shocked silence behind me. Alone in the torchlit passageway, I did not cry, but felt the hollow black ache of despair.

36.

18 May anno Domini 1504

T
he following day, the children’s little spaniel raced ahead along the riverbank, ears flying, belly fur raking refuse, mouth pulled back in a wide doggy grin. “Catch her!” I called after Leonor and Charles, who ran after her, shrieking. Behind them Isabel churned through grass up to her knees. She stumbled, fell, then popped up, crying for them to wait.

“I’ve been reading,” said Beatriz, strolling next to me. It was a fine morning. The air smelled of the muddy river, where ducklings scudded after their mothers, and of the wild roses blooming along the towpath, to which fat-legged bees paid visits like greedy proprietors checking on their holdings.

I laughed. “When are you not reading, Beatriz?”

Her graceful features were arranged in a frown within the white oval of her wimple. “I’m a little . . . concerned . . . about something.”

“Yes?” I said absentmindedly. Across the river, a stork sat on its nest atop an old church tower. Its devoted mate stood next to it, not moving, though a breeze raised the feathers on its head.

“I found a book in your husband’s library—”

I turned to her. “You mean the Dowager’s library. Philippe does not read.”

Her frown deepened, as if that might be significant. “Yes. That’s true. He doesn’t, does he?” She blinked in thought. “Well, as I was saying, I found this book—by Pliny the Elder, it turns out. It stuck out a little from its neighbors and so attracted my attention.”

The spaniel stopped and, panting, turned to wait for the children. Leonor came upon her first and scooped her up in a chokehold, to which the dog, rear legs hanging down and belly exposed, responded by grinning like a fool.

“Pliny—one of your Romans,” I said. “You must have liked that. Was it in Latin?”

“No. French. It was a miserable translation.”

I raised my voice. “Leonor! Charles may pet her, too.”

“Your Highness, Pliny was discussing some of the dangers to one’s health from the metal lead. He felt it was particularly dangerous in the form of the white lead paint ceruse. The workers who used it to paint ships often succumbed to a sudden death.”

“Charles, why would you hit your sister?” I ran over to Leonor, who sat in the grass crying, as Charles cuddled the dog.

“It’ff mine,” he said, holding the spaniel away from me. “Everyffing iff mine. I’m to be King ffomeday.”

“Kings must share,” I said. “At least good kings do.”

“Papa ffaid I get everyffing. Me and him.”

I kissed him on his brow, wide and high, and with its silky blond widow’s peak, so very beautiful. “Good kings like to see everyone happy. It makes them happier. Do you see how that works?”

He shook his head.

“You might try it. Be nice to someone, and see how it makes you feel. Here, give Leonor the dog.”

Begrudgingly, he handed her the dog. She smiled, then buried her nose in its fur.

“See?” I said. “Just by something you did, you made Leonor happy. You had the power to do so. Doesn’t that make you feel good and strong?”

“No.”

“Think about it. You’ll see.” I gathered him in for a kiss, and then released him.

“Now what were you saying?” I asked Beatriz.

“There was a note in the book on Pliny. It quoted Vitruvius, mentioning that when lead in vessels comes into contact with a liquid, it leaches into the liquid. And lead, once ingested, is harmful to one’s health.”

I watched the children. “Why do you tell me this?”

“The symptoms of lead ingestion are weakness and lethargy. Not usually enough to kill, but to render a person helpless. Though in the case of white lead paint, the outcome might be even more dire.”

“I still don’t know why you speak of this. Do you think such vessels are used in our kitchens?” I had a sudden thought. “Is the health of my children endangered?”

“Your Highness, the goblet from which you took the Prince’s potion was painted white.”

Weakness, she had said the symptoms were, and lethargy. The bleak months of my wasting illness; my daily exhaustion; how hard it had been sometimes to walk and talk, even to breathe—all this played across my mind. “Do you think there was lead in the paint?”

Beatriz drew in a shuddering breath. “I wonder, Your Highness, if the question is: Did someone wish for it to contain the poisonous metal?”

Hooves pounded. I started. Grasping my throat, I turned to see four German guards riding toward us with a riderless horse.

They reined their animals sharply. The commotion caused Isabel to latch on to my legs.

I looked up, shading my eyes. “Gentlemen?” I demanded, angry that they had frightened my child.

“Your Highness.” The leader’s pink skin and bristly yellow mustache were visible through his open visor. He dismounted and bowed. “His Highness asks that you return to the palace at once.”

I picked up Isabel. She pushed away, making clear that she was still uncomfortable with me. “I am with my children now.”

He frowned at Charles and Leonor, chasing the spaniel with sticks, their curiosity about the guards abated. “Your Highness, you are to come with us.”

I looked at the riderless horse. It was saddled with a pillion.

Beatriz stepped next to me. “What is it that is so pressing?”

The men glanced at one another.

“I won’t go,” I said, “unless I am told why I must leave my children.”

“We are under orders from the Prince.”

“Tell the Prince that the Princess shall be there shortly.” I turned toward Leonor and Charles, still running on the bank.

The guard laid his hand on my arm.

I stared at his gauntlet in shock even as I shifted Isabel away from him. “Do you know what you do?” I was incredulous.

He did not let go. “We are under orders from the Prince,” he repeated.

Isabel started to cry. I handed her to Beatriz.

“Must you do this in front of the children?” I demanded.

He grabbed my other arm. Charles and Leonor stopped playing to watch.

“Beatriz, stay with the children. It’s all right, Leonor. Charles, come and make Isabel smile. You have the power, remember?”

I let the guard seat me on the pillion before the children could become more frightened. The other men closed ranks around me. I was given the reins. The guard slapped my horse’s flank; we were off as a group. I rode for the palace escorted as closely as if I were the most dangerous enemy of the state.

37.

19 May anno Domini 1504

T
he nightingale sang outside my window. Up and down the scale she warbled, calling for her mate, as she had been doing since I was escorted to my bedchamber and unceremoniously locked within it.

She had sung for her mate in the morning, while I pounded on the door, furious, outraged. How could Philippe treat me like this? I was heir to the Spanish crowns. I was the daughter of the Catholic Kings. My God, I was his wife.

She had sung for her mate in the afternoon, as I sank cradling my aching fists. Was no one to come free me? Where was Beatriz, or even Katrien?

The nightingale sang in the early evening, when I sat hugging my knees in terror. I was friendless. Powerless. My husband had made it abundantly clear that he could do whatever he wanted with me.

A key scraped in the keyhole. I rose, my heart thumping.

Philippe entered, a guilty smile on his face. “Knock, knock.”

Even as he crossed the chamber, my relief that he had come hardened into fury. He kissed my hand, its flesh made tender from beating the door. I pulled it away.

The pouches by his mouth were set with a mixture of apology and stubbornness. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“I was walking with the children when your men came, Philippe. They frightened them. Leonor was crying. Did you not think of that when you ordered the men to seize me then?”

“You must understand my position. I could not have you leave a reception without my dismissing you. It made me look weak.”

“And so you had me locked into my room like a dog?”

His contriteness dissolved. “You make it sound worse than it is. I will not be made to look like less of a man by my wife, as your father lets your mother do. I saw enough of that while in the Spains.”

“I left last night because I wished to leave. It was not a show of power.”

“That’s not how it was construed.” He went over to my table and picked up my pen. “Write me an apology. As soon as you show me deference, I will let you go.”

“I will tell you now, then: I am sorry to have made you feel bad. It was not my intention.”

“Not good enough.” He held out my pen. “Write.”

“I will not write. I am telling you: I am sorry.” I turned to leave.

He dropped the pen and grabbed my arm.

“You’re hurting me!”

His fingers dug into my flesh. “I said to write me a proper apology. You know how, with your fancy Latin training. The nun taught you how to turn a pretty phrase—do it.”

“Let me go!”

“Not until you show me some respect.”

I laughed. “Dear Philippe, don’t you know that you can’t force someone to respect you? You have to earn it.”

He raised his hand. I flinched.

He patted my head. “There, there. I am surprised at you.” He let go of me and then rubbed my arm. “You know I would never hurt you. Gyrfalcons are not trained by abusing them. They are given choice bits of meat and coddled until they realize that their masters will take care of them when they behave.”

“Yes, and they come to that conclusion more quickly when their eyes are sewn shut.”

He stared at me and, deciding I must be jesting, chuckled. “I should sew yours shut.”

“Oh, mine were, for quite some time, by my lust.”

He drew me to him. “Lust. Puss. Why can’t you call it love? What’s so wrong with desiring your husband?”

I kept my face turned away. “Nothing, when he treats you with care.”

“I take care of you as much as any man takes care of his woman.”

I broke from him and laughed. “I hope that is not true.”

He caught my wrist. “You developed a smart mouth, being around your mother.”

“Alas, if only I had a brain to match hers.”

“She’s not invincible, Juana. She can be defeated.”

“Oh, she can be.”

“I’m glad you are aware of that.” He let go of me and reached inside his doublet. He took my hand and put a lump upon it. From my open palm, Diego’s pearl glowed with a milky light.

“Just to show you that I am a reasonable man, I am giving it back to you.”

But how will you remember your father without it?
I had asked Diego when he had given me the pearl.

I saw his tender expression.
I am not likely to forget,
he had said.

I laid the pearl on a table. “I don’t need it.” Outside, the nightingale sang loudly. How long would she go on calling before she realized that her mate was not to come?

“I came here to free you. Damn it, Puss, I love you. Why do you want it to look otherwise?” He scowled at the window. “Damn bird. It’s driving me mad.”

I gazed into his beautiful face, now contorted with frustration. Yes, I believed that he did love me, in his unholy fashion, as Papa loved Mother in his own. Yet Papa had betrayed her, as Philippe betrayed me and would continue to betray me, the moment he stepped from this room. How many generations would this go on, as it had played out in my mother’s life and mine? Would strong women forever find themselves undermined by their lovers should they appear too strong, cut down at their vulnerable roots—their need for trust?

I crossed over to my desk.

“You’re writing the apology?” He sounded pleasantly surprised. “Good. Very good. Your attendants wait in the antechamber. I shall tell them to spread the word of my pardon and our reconciliation.”

I sat down.

“I truly do love you, Puss. Next time, just think before you act, that’s all.”

I unscrewed the golden cap from a horn of ink, then paused. “Philippe, can you promise you will be true to me?”

“I can promise that I will love you.”

“That’s not the same. People can do horrible things to the people they love. Philippe, I am asking, will you be true?”

“Puss, I am weak. It does not mean that I don’t love you.”

“Weakness is a choice, Philippe.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know where you get these ideas.”

I took up my pen. Swallowing back remorse so deep that I could scarcely breathe, I formed the first words.

My dear Mother. Can you forgive me? I am just now beginning to understand.