The Last Queen (37 page)

name until I say otherwise.”

Rage suffused Philip‟s face. Don Manuel wagged his hand at me. “Your Highness

makes a grave mistake. Your father held his title in Castile through your mother, who

is now deceased. He therefore has no further right to it, and not even the Cortes can

prevail over popular sentiment. Fernando of Aragón was never liked. He‟ll not rule in

your name much longer.”

“What do you know of my father?” I retorted. “You‟re not fit to clean his boots!

He‟ll crush you under his heel like the miserable toad you are and I‟ll applaud him

when he does.”

I caught the flicker of fear in his protruding eyes, contradicting his next words:

“Your Highness, most
grandes
of importance have either sent a missive or

representative swearing allegiance to His Highness. If you hope to ever assume your

throne, you should think first before you refuse us this simple request.”

I met his eyes. My fists clenched in my lap. Double-talk: the art of the

ambassador. Two could play this game. “Very well. But in return, I too have a few

requests.”

“You are in no position to barter!” Philip slammed his hand on the table.

I gave him a frigid smile. “I am the queen of Castile. Without my signature on that

letter, you cannot order a single mule in Spain.”

Don Manuel murmured, “It‟s true, Your Highness. We are running out of time.”

Philip glared at me. “What do you want?”

“My women. You will also free Lopez and send him back to Spain. And no

guards; I am to bear your child. I‟ll not be a prisoner. If you do these things, I will sign your letter.”

The light leached from his eyes. Had we been alone, he wouldn‟t have hesitated to

beat me into submission. But we weren‟t alone. He‟d brought Don Manuel and his by

now agitated secretary to bear witness to my “voluntary” signing. He would not want

it bantered about that he had coerced me by force.

“Fine,” he snarled. “Now sign.”

I stood. “Don Manuel, you heard my husband. I pray you remind him of his

promises.” I went to the desk, inked a quill and scrawled my signature.

Philip stalked out, Don Manuel and the secretary scurrying behind. Only then did

I grasp at the desk‟s edge. I felt my knees give way. For the first time, I felt the child in my womb quicken with a sharp kick. I took it as a sign.

I had won a victory, bought at a terrible price, yes, but a victory nevertheless.

And thus, step by step, would I win the war.

――――――――――――

THE DAYS THREADED WITHOUT END. THE GUARDS WERE REMOVED; once again

the palace was open to me. But I did not leave my chambers, knowing that the

moment my letter reached Spain it would prompt those who might have remained

loyal to my father to declare for Philip. He promised riches, titles. I had said I would

make him king. Only the very brave or foolish would continue to support my father

now. I prayed Papá could still convince the Cortes that my letter must have been

obtained by force, for I‟d never willingly deprive him of the defense of my kingdom.

On September 15, 1505, I took to my bed and bore my fifth child, a daughter

Philip ordered christened Mary in honor of his late mother. Immediately after the

birth he departed again, leaving me under Don Manuel‟s guard and the care of my few

loyal women.

My new babe was healthy, with the Habsburg skin and a shock of wiry red hair.

But I did not enjoy her for long. Soon after the birth, I fell ill for the first time with that often-lethal ailment of new mothers― milk fever. The doctors expressed

consternation and advised Don Manuel to lift any restrictions imposed on me. Don

Manuel agreed, though not before he first sent Mary and her wet-nurse off to Savoy,

to join my other children with their
tante
Margaret.

From my sickbed, I summoned preternatural strength to pen another letter to

Margaret, which Beatriz entrusted to the wet-nurse. In it, I implored her to remember

my children were innocents and mustn‟t be used. I entrusted them to her care until I

could be reunited with them.

The fever came close to killing me. As soon as my letter was sent, I succumbed to

a fiery hell. Later, Beatriz told me of her and Soraya‟s constant vigil at my side,

watching helplessly as I thrashed for days, delirious and inchoate. Not until late

October did I recover sufficiently to leave me bed, not until November did I have

enough strength to venture into the gardens to partake of the fresh wintery air.

Only one thing gave me satisfaction: his anxious inquiries and daily visits proved

that the mere thought of my demise provoked heart-stopping terror in Don Manuel.

My death would be a disaster for him and Philip. Without me, they had nothing. By

law, my father could set my son on the throne and rule in his name as regent. The

dream of a Habsburg Spain, which had torn apart our lives, would be over before it

had even begun.

I had no intention of dying. The doctors might pronounce my survival

miraculous, but I knew my time had not come. With my fur-lined cowl over my head

and my hands in a muff, I sat in the gardens for hours, watching darkness overcome

the leaden sky, my shadow freezing on the hard ground. Snow fluttered in the air. I

hoped it would bury Flanders in a glacial tomb.

It was here that Don Manuel Came to me. Beatriz stood, a flush to her cheeks. I

motioned her to step aside and regarded him coolly as he bowed low, almost

upsetting the huge beaver skin hat on his head. He was all deference, indicating

something of importance had taken place. “Your Highness, I bring good news. Our

letter had reached Castile and the summons from the Cortes has come. We‟ll depart

for Spain as soon as arrangements are made.”

I absorbed this news without a word. He bowed again, hand on the hat, then

pulled his thick cape about his little person and hurried away.

I looked at Beatriz. Around us the snow gathered strength, blurring the outlines

of the shrouded fruit trees and topiary cut in the shape of rampant beasts.

For the first time in our years together, my devoted lady and friend did not notice

my disquiet. She embraced me. “Finally,
princesa,
we are going home!”

Home.

“Yes,” I said softly. “So it begins.”

――――――――――――――――――――――――

1506 ―
1509

“FOR SHE WAS A WOMAN MADE TO SEEK ALL THINGS IN THIS WORLD, WITHOUT

FAILURE OF HEART OR COURAGE.”

―
ANONYMOUS CHRONICLES

――――――――――――――――――――――――

TWENTY-FOUR

stood before Brandenburg Bay, which churned like an enormous cauldron,

lacerated by the high winds and causing our fleet of top-heavy galleons to bob in

I water- like gilded corks. It was the start of the winter storm season; not even the

hardiest of fishermen would dare brave a trip by sea at a time like this. But winter‟s

fury meant nothing to my husband― not if it came between him and his ultimate

ambition.

I smiled.

After dispatching my letter, Philip had had no choice but to reach accord with my

father, after which he ordered a flurried of preparations to rival the intensity of the

winter storms. Now he strode about like a king anointed, shouting orders left and

right with Don Manuel scampering at his heels, and leaving me to mull over this

unexpected turn of events. I wished I had Lopez with me, to help me unravel the

tangled skeins whereby I found myself bound for Spain.

Of course, I already knew Philip had no attention of honoring any accord he had

with my father or indeed anyone else. He‟d break it as soon as he could, had in fact

already broken it, at least in his mind. If not, why gather his entire guard and corps of German mercenaries? Why this arsenal of crossbows, swords, and lances and this fleet

of seventy-odd ships? There could be no other explanation. My husband prepared for

war.

So did I. Only I didn‟t need a single soldier to initiate it.

Philip strode to me. He wore topaz brocade shot with gold, his cloak lined in

marten. He‟d been exercising tirelessly for weeks, tilting at the joust, practicing his

archery and swordplay, losing the excess weight and regaining that muscled frame that

now seemed to block out everything around me.

“It is time.” He glanced peremptorily at my women. “They‟ll have to travel with

the others of our suite. There‟s no room on the flagship.”

“Beatriz and Soraya go where I go,” I replied. “They can sleep in my cabin. I am

forced to leave my children behind. Surely, you don‟t expect me to make any more

sacrifices?”

He stared at me. I met his eyes, ice against ice. Though I still felt the remnants of

sorrow that our youthful love had degenerated into this dangerous game of wills,

there was really nothing left in my heart for him. I looked on him as I might a

stranger.

“Do as you will,” He said, “Only be quick about it, or I‟ll leave you behind. He

strode away. I followed at a leisurely pace, boarding the rowboat that would bring us

to our galleon, providing it didn‟t roll over and drown us first.

Night closed in, obscuring the shore.

I did not look back. I had already decided I would never again return to Flanders.

――――――――――――

ON THE THIRD DAY, AS WE ROUNDED THE COAST OF BRITTANY, A bird dropped

out of the sky and fell at my feet. I looked down at the panting, feathered body, about

to kneel when I saw a nearby sailor genuflect fervently. “No, Your Highness, don‟t

touch it. It is an omen!”

I chuckled. “Nonsense. It‟s a poor sparrow that‟s lost in its way.” I scooped up

the creature as it feebly beat its wings. One wing was crooked. Wondering if it was

broken, I looked about for Beatriz.

The sailor watched me with terrified eyes. “I beg Your Highness to toss it into the

sea. Please, for the love of God. It will blight our voyage.”

I laughed and went to my cabin where I set the sparrow on my berth. After

dipping a goblet into the barrel of fresh water outside, I fed it droplets with my

fingers, crooning as if to a child. I wrapped my shawl about it, lul ed it to sleep in this makeshift nest as twilight fell and the sea‟s murmur sang with the creaking of the ship

and whoosh of sails.

Beatriz came to tell me that everyone on board was talking about a winged beast

that had come to curse the ship. I motioned at the tiny bundle. “Here‟s your winged

beast: a simple tired sparrow. Now, go fetch me a cup of hot broth. I‟ll feed it until its strong enough to fly again.” As I spoke, I felt unexpected warmth in my chest.

Perhaps my heart wasn‟t as dead as I‟d thought, after all.

――――――――――――

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, THE STORM HIT. THE SKY TO THE WEST turned a dark

crimson, awash in tattered burgundy-black clouds. A menacing darkness overcame the

fleet, whipping the sea into savage heights and consuming everything in its path like a

gigantic maw.

In our cabin, my women and I raced to clear the floor, stacking the table and

chairs at the far corner and shoving my chests against them. I stored the bleating

sparrow in a perforated coffer where I kept my pittance of jewels, nestling it safely

inside.

Outside, the wind howled, flinging down icy ruin. The ship began to careen as if it

were on wheels, its rolling motion growing increasingly violet as the sea heaved.

Huddled with my women, I listened to the crashing of mountainous waves up and

over deck railings, the desperate clamor of the crew as they fought to save us from

destruction.

Then came a piercing splintering sound, followed by panicked yelling. Instants

later, the galleon started to keel. Soraya keened while Beatriz began whispering prayers

to every saint she could think of. I, in turn, began to get a feel for the motion, which

was a little like riding a wild stallion. It was exhilarating, completely unexpected

sensation. I felt alive. Alive and free.

The ship groaned upright. I gave a sudden giggle. Drowned with the husband I‟d

come to loathe and his foppish suite: what an epigraph it would make!

“Come,” I said to my ladies. “We shall go outside.”

“Outside?” repeated Beatriz, as thought I‟d declared I would throw myself from

the prow.

“Yes.” Supporting myself with hands against the wall, I moved toward the door.

Despite the dire situation, Beatriz was not about to forgo her responsibility. She came

after me with a cloak, sickly green as she was. When I wrenched open the door, the

wend leapt at us like a feral pet. Braced against the high tower railing, I gazed on

pandemonium below, the Flemish nobles racing about in hysterics in their sopping

finery while deckhands struggled to secure the cracked mast and keep the galleon

afloat.

I spotted Don Manuel, a drenched monkey in his soaking brown velvets. Philip

was at his side, his figure grotesquely misshapen. What on earth―? I peered. A burst

of laughter tore from my lips. My husband wore an inflated leather sack! Even from

where I stood, I could discern bold red words splashed in ink across his chest:
El rey
Don Felipe.

I tossed back my head, laughing uproariously.
El rey!
The king! So in case he fell overboard and managed to float ashore, he‟d not be mistaken for a common sailor. It