The Last Queen (39 page)

once before and widowed. I am not a thirteen-year-old girl with a host of suitors

outside my door, Juana. You know that as well as I. At my age, you had already borne

your husband a child. I
am
beholden; I am betrothed to Prince Henry. Through no

fault of mine, doubts have been cast on my honor. I must not concede defeat. You

read Mamá‟s letter. God has a plan for me. He wants me to be queen of England.”

“God may want it,” I told her, but I can do nothing for you here. I‟ve no power

until I reach Spain and am invested by the Cortes. Don‟t you see? I― I too am

fighting for my life.”

The words were out before I could take them back. I saw her expression falter,

knew at once that despite her isolation from this court, she had heard something of

my plight. Then she leaned close. “There
is
something you can do. Your husband and the king negotiate a treaty. His Grace would betroth Henry to another princess,

perhaps one of your own daughters. You could refuse, offer him something else in

exchange with honoring my betrothal. You could refuse, offer him something else in

exchange for honoring my betrothal.”

Her eyes and voice were fervid as she grasped my hands. In that instant, she

terrified me. She was like our mother, once her mind was made up― immovable,

impermeable, a rock against which the entire world might break and not make a

difference.

“His Grace is not well,” she said, with a gleam in her eyes. “He coughs up blood

and tires easily. All I need is time. Henry loves me. I know he does. And once he

becomes king, he will make me his queen.”

“Oh no, Catalina,” I looked down at our entwined fingers and fled a void open

between us. “It is
you
who loves him, beyond reason. I can see it in your eyes. You love him with all your heart and soul, and such a love can only destroy you as it once

destroyed me.”

I saw her flinch. I reached up, cupped her chin in my hand. “Look at me. I too

have loved as you love this prince. And in the end, he has betrayed me. You must

forget this Henry. Come with me now, before it is too late.”

She was silent. Then she said, “No.”

It was then we heard voices in the corridor. Catalina whirled to the bench,

grabbing up her discarded letter. She fled to the door in the wainscoting. There she

paused, for a moment, looking at me. Our eyes met. She slipped out, as if she had

never been with me at all.

I fought back a crushing wave of sorrow and rage, motioning Beatriz to the door;

moments later, a group of lords strode in, accompanied by grooms carrying torches.

The fiery flood of light hurt my eyes. I did not have to be told that the stooped, gaunt

figure in the sable robe, standing in the center of the staring me, was Henry VII, king

of England.

Beside him stood my husband.

――――――――――――

I DID NOT SEE CATALINA AGAIN AND SOMEHOW MANAGED TO REFRAIN from

asking, recalling how frightened she had been that our visit would be discovered. I

suspected the king knew, however even as he expressed surprise at my arrival, thought

I understood I would have been sent for eventually, as the suite had been prepared for

me. He held festivities in my honor, accorded me the courtesy of a fellow sovereign. I

had an immediate dislike of him for what he‟d done to my sister and our subsequent

encounters only confirmed my impression.

Seated beside him on the royal dais, I felt his flint-gray eyes appraising me as if I

were on display, his bronchial guffaw underscored by the lurid undertone of a man

who has slept alone too long. The shuffling of his bony fingers reminded me of insect

wings. He retched frequency, dribbling blood-flecked saliva onto his napkin. Whether

his illness was mortal or not, I could not tell. If it were, he might endure for years

before it killed him. Lung rot was unpredictable and he was the kind of king who‟d

cling to his last gasping breath. When he introduced me to his heir, the young prince

whom Catalina refused to leave, I understood why.

Startling tall, with the face of a cherub and body of a god, the king‟s sixteen-year-

old namesake was impeccably courteous, engaging me in brief conversation before he

excused himself. I noticed the swagger of his broad shoulders and long muscular legs

as he walked away and the way his father scowled and averted his eyes. The king

couldn‟t bear to see such a magnificent counterpart to his own decay.

“He‟ll make a strapping husband one day,” Henry VII chuckled, leaning so close

to me I smelled his rotting teeth. It was his first allusion to the fact he knew my sister and I had met.

I gave him a brave smile, anticipating the snare I knew he and Philip would

spring.

――――――――――――

IT CAME WITHIN THE WEEK.

Philip walked into my rooms and set before me the draft of a new treaty between

him and the Tudor. It required only my signature. I read it thoroughly before I lifted

my eyes. “No.”

His mouth twisted. “What do you mean, no? It‟s an excellent arrangement. In

exchange for these few concessions, we will have English support in Spain. What

could you object to?”

I pushed the treaty aside. “Everything. First, why do we need English support in

Spain? We just signed an accord with my father. Second, these concessions consist of

three different marriage alliances, one between our son Charles and the king‟s

youngest daughter, Mary; another between your sister Margaret and the king himself;

and last but not least, one between his heir and our Eleanor.”

“Yes? And? They‟re good matches, all of them.”

I wanted to spit in his face. Instead, I stared him in the eye. He drew back,

unnerved by my visible contempt, which at certain moments could reduce the

violence and hatred between us to the insignificance of a domestic squabble.

“You may do as you please with your sister, though I doubt Margaret will

appreciate it. But when it comes to our children, I have a say in who they shall wed.

And―” ―I raised my voice, overriding his protest― “as far as Prince Harry is

concerned, lest you have forgotten, he is already betrothed to my sister.”

He flushed red, rapped his knuckles on the table. “I asked for your signature only

to spare you that mulish pride of yours. With or without your signature, I
wil
have this treaty.”

“Then do so. Sign your life away. In the meantime, I leave this very day for Essex

and our ships.” I strode to the door, startling Don Manuel and the Flemish nobles,

who skulked in the corridor with the dogs. “My lords, send word to His Grace the

king of England that Her Majesty the queen of Castile wishes to bid him farewell. At

once.”

――――――――――――

I RODE BACK TO ESSEX IN A RAGING STORM, MY THOUGHTS TURBULENT as the

gusting winds.

Once again in that damp manor, I waited three weeks until Philip‟s return, his

attendants laden with coffers of baubles given to him by the Tudor. I would have

departed for Spain long since had the ship‟s crew obeyed me. As it stood, I wished I‟d

taken to the sea in a rowboat when Philip returned carrying that treasure trove of gifts

and plate from Henry VII, and the English Order of the Garter about his neck.

“Pity you missed the ceremony,” he said. “I was the toast of the court. Archduke

of Flanders, King of Castile, and Knight of the Garter.”

I refrained from comment, forced to share supper with him in the hall. When

Don Manuel tried to converse with me― as Philip had the supreme bad taste of

seating the ambassador at our board as if he were of equal rank― I rebuffed him. Not

until I got back to my chambers did I give in to my nausea, revolted by the bland

English far and the events that had preceded it.

That night Philip banged at my door. I‟d thought he‟d might. I had seen the

drunken glitter in his eyes, and anticipated the price of barring the door against him.

Beatriz sat wide-eyed on her pallet with Soraya as I stood silently listening to him yell,

“Open the door! Open it, you Castilian bitch!” He slammed his fists and booted feet

against the door, no doubt rousing the entire manor with his belligerence.

In the end I unlocked it because in his current state he was capable of ordering his

men to break it down. As my women hurried out he whirled on me with his fist

raised. “Don‟t you ever lock your door on me again!”

His eyes were red slits. He‟d drunk more than his weight of the heavy ale the

English preferred. Glancing at the large hand poised above me (for he had put on

weight guzzling Henry Tudor‟s victuals), I said, “If you strike me, not only will I lock

my door, but you will never so much as look on me again.”

He snorted, lowered his hand. “As if you could ever stop me.”

I refrained from reminding him I just had, turning back to the bed as he fumbled

at his codpiece. I knew why he was here. Get her with child again, the gnome had

said. Get her with child so she‟ll be more malleable in Spain.

I lay back, lifted my nightgown. I would not enter Spain bruised and battered.

Better to let him have his way. “Ah, Juana,” he slurred. “You still want me, don‟t you?

You still want your Felipe in you.” He couldn‟t get his codpiece off. He was too

inebriated to untie the stays. He had to pull his sex out the site and pump it to

hardness with his fist.

I wondered if despite everything, I might feel something, if a last ember of our

flown passion might somehow smolder and ignite. But all I felt was greasy fingers, the

unbearable heaviness of his flesh as he pushed inside. It was grotesque, a travesty. I

considered whether I could induce myself to vomit on him as he bucked and heaved.

In only seconds he gasped and rolled off me. He fell asleep as much, snoring with

his mouth ajar, his breath rank with ale. Slipping from bed, I went to a chair by the

window.

I sat, staring into the blustery darkness.

I remained there all night, not moving, not thinking as his seed filled my womb.

At dawn, I opened the sparrow‟s cage and released it into the gray English sky

――――――――――――――――――――――――

TWENTY-FIVE

here was something indescribable about coming home. As the rugged white

cliffs and coves of Galicia‟s northern coast reared in the distance, the green

T headlands crowned by the Torre De Hércules, I felt released like my sparrow

from the confines of an incomprehensible existence.

Fishing boats sent from the port city of La Coruña sidled up to the galleon. I

enjoyed the fishermen‟s wide eyes and gaping mouths when the captain of the fleet

yelled out in broken Spanish that he conveyed Their Majesties the king and queen of

Castile. I did not care that he cited Philip first. The astonished elation of my

countrymen as they rowed furiously back to shore was more than enough to appease

me.

I was in Spain. And La Coruña at the northeaster edge of my realm, with its steep

fertile vales and granite towns populated by an industrious, taciturn people loyal to

Castile, would be the first to welcome me.

“Miserable, isn‟t it?” Philip had stepped beside me. “I had hoped to land

anywhere but here.”

I did not look at him. “Yes, I know where you‟d prefer to land: In Toledo, where

the
grandes
you have bribed await you with their vassals. Fortunately, your fear of drowning has outweighed your determination to betray my father.”

He chuckled. “Such a spitfire you are, my infanta.” He gripped my arm. “But I

suggest you exercise control over that sharp tongue, unless you want to arrive in your

precious Spain wearing my bride and reins. I pulled away. I hadn‟t yet told him our

coupling a month ago had become fruit and had no intention of doing so until it

became absolutely necessary. As before, he would seek to use it as an excuse to

confine me again and I needed every moment of freedom I had.

“I must change,” I pushed past him. “I want to be seen as befits my rank.”

“Why bother? All you ever wear these days is black!” He released a cruel laugh.

I continued to my cabin. He wouldn‟t have a reason to laugh much longer.

――――――――――――

THE ENTIRE CITY TURNED OUT TO RECEIVE US, THE WOMEN and children carrying

hastily picked bouquets of early spring flowers, the men in their Sunday finest. Our

arrival was completely unexpected and the town officials wrung their hands as they

tried to make the best of it. They were overjoyed, of course, but they wished they‟d

had more time to prepare, fearing I would find their reception frugal, lacking in the

grandeur I deserved.

I smiled, shook my head. I cared nothing for fanfare. Let my subjects welcome

me and I would be satisfied.

Philip tapped his foot, understanding little of what I said, as he‟d never bothered

to fully master Spanish. He required Don Manuel to stand on a footstool and

breathlessly translate into French, and the words
my subjects
made my husband glower.

Throwing up his head and puffing out his chest, he interrupted my conversation with

the officials (a breach of etiquette that would not endear him to anyone) and we set

out on foot to the cathedral where we were scheduled to receive the keys into the city

before retiring to the Dominican monastery that had been selected for our lodgings.