Reign of Madness (4 page)

3.

29 May anno Domini 1493

I
t was the day after Colón had finally left Barcelona to put together his fleet, after weeks of milking Mother for praise and concessions. The morning was as sunny, new, and fresh as only a morning in May can be, even in quarters where dogs were kept and blacksmiths’ fires burned and piles of manure attracted lazily buzzing flies. I had gone to the kennels upon hearing that Juan’s favorite mastiff bitch had recently whelped. I wished to see the pups. Even though it was hardly proper for a king’s daughter to wander about a service courtyard, Beatriz and I would not be there long enough for it to matter.

Hens were strutting among the doghouses as I gently separated a squeaking pup from its mother lying in the straw. Beatriz stood by absentmindedly, fingering the skirts of her plain gray robes—she dressed like a nun although she belonged to no order. She was reciting Horace in her head, I supposed. She would have been absentminded regardless of what I was doing, for the previous evening she had received another visit from her betrothed, and she always came away from such distant and distracted. My sister María, romantic that she was, felt sure this was because Beatriz was yearning to wed this gentleman, Francisco Ramírez. He was one of Mother’s young secretaries, very handsome and charming, always handy with a jest for us royal children and quick with his broad white smile. Mother had approved of the marriage in reward for Beatriz’s tutoring services, or perhaps Beatriz, nineteen and beautiful, with a doe’s liquid brown eyes, had been given to him in reward for his secretarial duties. I did not know which. Nor did I know why they did not go ahead and marry, though I was glad that they had not. I knew from experience that my next keeper would not likely be as tractable as Beatriz.

I was cradling the whimpering pup, Estrella prancing at my feet, when Beatriz stiffened, her gaze pinned upon a doghouse.

“What is it?”

“I don’t . . . know.”

I glanced at the blacksmith in a bay behind us, his pincers to the fire. In another bay of the arcade, a carpenter and his assistant planed a plank of wood. A hen tugged at something in the dirt near the hem of my gown. Nothing seemed amiss.

I put down the pup.

In that instant, a man burst from the doghouse and grabbed my arm. I screamed, then, seeing it was one of Colón’s Indios, screamed again. He held on, crying out in his tongue.

The carpenters dropped their tools and ran, but before they could reach me, a page in Juan’s livery sprang from the shadows of the arcade and attacked the Indio.

“Don’t hurt him!” I cried, even as the page threw the Indio to the ground. The poor creature rolled in the dirt, cradling his arm.

“Are you well?” the page asked me.

With a start, I recognized Diego Colón. “Yes! He was not hurting me.”

“And that is why you screamed?”

To the gathering crowd of workmen, Beatriz announced, “Her Highness Doña Juana de Castile!” as if I were favoring them with a Royal Visit.

The smith bowed, dripping sweat. “Do you need assistance, Your Highness?”

I smiled with all the dignity one could muster when one’s slipper was sinking into a pile of dung while an Indio moaned at one’s feet. “No. Thank you. Please do not let me keep you from your work.”

The men backed away, glancing at one another, then returned to their tasks.

“Is he hurt?” I asked Diego Colón. Regaining my senses, I realized that it was the Indio named Juanito, after my brother, Juan. Mother caused him to be baptized, along with the five other Indios, in the cathedral four days after Colón’s arrival in Barcelona. He was the only one to have survived more than a fortnight. Charmed by his name, Juan had taken him into his service as a page, but having learned of Juanito’s ungovernable fear of horses, had promptly relieved him of his livery and relegated him to the far reaches of his outer circle. It would not do for a representative of his court to cry out in terror when seated upon even the gentlest mare. Not when a man’s prowess was measured by how well he handled a horse.

“He should not have touched you,” Diego said. “No one should touch a lady, let alone the daughter of the King and Queen.”

“He did not know better,” I said. “Imagine being among a foreign people, unable to communicate your thoughts and desires.”

“You assume that I have not been in that situation.”

I could not think what he meant. Did he mock me?

“Why was he upset?” I asked. “What was he shouting at me?”

“Do you think I know his gabble?” When he saw my frown, he added coldly, “He is new to my care this day.”

Never mind that this Colón was handsome in his narrow-faced way, and slimly muscular, and broad of shoulder for a youth my age; he was as arrogant as his father. I pushed back my headdress, which was slipping onto my brow. “Where is your little brother?”

He looked away. “Your brother the Prince has made him his mascot. They are out hunting.”

“Why are you not with them?”

“The Prince gave me charge of Juanito,” he said.

I laughed. “And your charge escaped and hid here in the kennels.”

He stared coolly.

“Highness,” said Beatriz. “Your mother must wonder where you are.”

I turned to her. “My mother,” I said, “is closeted with Fray Hernando, figuring out how to save more souls. Do you think that she notices where I am?”

Juanito, still crouched, held out his hand to Estrella, who had come creeping out from behind the mastiff and her pups. Estrella leaned forward and, gingerly, sniffed his fingertips. She waved her tail when he stroked her head.

“Dog,” I said loudly.

Juanito looked up at me.

“Dog,” I repeated. “She won’t hurt you.”

He scratched behind Estrella’s ears with both hands. “Dug,” he said woodenly.

“Good!
Dog
. Have you been teaching him Castilian?” I asked Diego Colón.

“That is not one of my duties.”

“But wouldn’t you want him to learn?”

He raised his chin.

It occurred to me then that it might not be an honor to be assigned to care for Juanito—not when it caused the assignee to be away from Juan’s inner circle of attendants. Juan must not think much of Diego’s company. And how much greater Diego must feel the sting of this, having his five-year-old brother preferred over him.

“I will not tell my brother that you lost your charge,” I said.

He met my gaze. “And I will not tell your brother that I met you in the kennels.”

I stared at him. Did he not recognize that I was showing him pity?

Juanito rose after Estrella, who, distracted by a fly, had leaped away. I was glad to see that he had not been injured on my behalf.

Diego stepped directly behind him.

“Must you guard him like you do?” I exclaimed.

“It’s what your brother told me to do.”

“If Juan told you to jump from the battlements of the city wall, would you?”

“I’m not in a position to question my prince.”

“You should, when he leaves you behind while your little brother goes hunting.”

He gazed at me long and hard, giving me ample opportunity to know that his eyes were more grayish-green than greenish-gray, should María ask again. “I am grateful for the honors your family has given me. I shall not forget what they did for us, even when I am—” He stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. Please. What?”

Water gurgled from the stone spout of the fountain behind us. He pursed his lips. “Rich.”

I raised my brows.

“Easy for you to laugh,” he said.

“I did not laugh.”

“Surely you are not so coddled as to not realize that others aspire to the comfort that you take for granted. Most of us must work hard and seize every good chance to make our way up in the world. Most of us are buffeted by disappointments and disillusions.”

“You assume that I have not been in that situation.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Do you mock me with my words?”

“Not at all. Your words applied, and so I used them.”

“I see. So a princess feels disappointments.”

“At times—of course I do. If you scratch me, I do bleed.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “Then I shall be careful never to do so.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“Highness!” pleaded Beatriz. “I am certain we will be missed.”

“Your lady calls you,” he said.

I turned to leave, then turned back. “You should not make judgments about persons. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”

“I did not think royal shoes could pinch.”

“Ours might pinch most grievously of all.”

“That is doubtful.”

Beatriz took my arm. I resisted. “I wish you could walk in my shoes someday, don Diego. Then you would know what I speak of.”

“Indeed,” he said, “I should like to.”

Beatriz drew me away by force. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I do not wish to lose my position.”

I looked over my shoulder as we entered the arcade on the other side of the courtyard. Oblivious of the stares of the workmen, Diego and Juanito stood side by side, an unlikely pair. When he saw me looking, Diego gazed up at the arcade, as if something interesting had landed on the pillar above him.

I turned around, smiling to myself.

Oh, most definitely, his eyes were grayest green.

That afternoon, I was called to Mother’s chamber. She and Papa sat side by side at a table, reading documents that Cardinal Mendoza was passing to Mother. A secretary waited to the right of the Cardinal with a stack of items to be read, while another secretary was poised to my parents’ left with a shaker of sand, ready to sprinkle their wet ink.

I stood quietly. In the past weeks, I had not tried again to give Papa his ruby. Indeed, I had hidden it in a coffer in my room, and then forgotten about it as well as I could. There was something disturbing about it, something I did not wish to ponder.

Cardinal Mendoza’s red skullcap flashed in the light pouring through the arched window as he tipped his head toward Papa. “Remind your wife again how much her soldiers worship her. Should she desire, I believe she could lead them to Jerusalem and back.”

“I lost a child,” Mother said flatly, “riding to war. A son.”

Papa kissed her hand. “My darling princess. If someone says black, must you always say white?”

“When we were preparing to lay siege to Loja, I felt the first pangs of childbirth at the council table. The babies came early—I lost María’s twin. But I did lead those soldiers, oh, did I lead them. Just as I was told.”

“Isabel,” Papa said in a scolding tone.

She would not look at him. “I have done my part, Your Holiness,” she said to the Cardinal. “And I refuse now to be cajoled into continuing the Crusade into Africa or across the Mediterranean. Isn’t it enough that we took Granada and the Spains are now united?”

“We would win,” said Papa.

“He’s right, you know,” said the Cardinal.

Mother held the old man’s gaze. “Not only horses can be ridden to the ground.”

The Cardinal looked away, then, seeing me watching, showed his tiny reptilian teeth.

Papa followed his gaze. “Juana.” He smiled. “How is my shirt coming along?”

Our old jest. I had been working on a shirt for Papa since I was Catalina’s age, but it had never passed Mother’s approval. Only her shirts were good enough for him. The queen of more lands than any potentate in the world, and she insisted on sewing for her husband.

“I should have it to you on Tuesday,” I said—my usual response.

“Then on Tuesday, I should look like a king.”

My cue: “But Papa, you already are a king.”

Cardinal Mendoza arranged his wrinkles in a smile as Papa and I grinned at each other.

Mother signed her document with a flourish, then slid it to Papa. “If you are quite done.” I straightened my face when she looked at me. “Our portraitist has come from Toledo to paint your picture.”

“My picture?”

Papa glanced at Mother.

“It shouldn’t be too hard for him to catch your freshness and beauty.”

She was calling me fresh and beautiful? Her usual manner was to home in on the areas in which I needed improvement, not to compliment me. An alarum sounded in my head.

“We need this picture to send to Maximilian, King of the Romans.” She looked at Papa as if waiting for him to chime in.

Papa leaned forward, signed the document, then pushed it to the secretary to sand, silent as the anvil of his emblem.

Mother frowned at him before continuing. “He has a boy of marriageable age,” she told me. “A healthy, intelligent-enough, athletic boy, a year older than you. Philippe is his name.”

“Philippe inherited the title of Duke of Burgundy from his mother,” said the Cardinal. “Mary of Burgundy was one of the richest women in the world. From his father’s side he carries the title Archduke of Austria and brings the wealth and ambition of the Habsburgs. As his wife, you would live in splendor.”

“I suppose he can mount his own horse,” I said. I saw Papa hide his smile. I warmed with pride at amusing him. How many times had we heard Mother tell the story of how, as a girl, she had rejected the future King of France as a suitor on the grounds that he could not mount his steed unaided?